


He Scares Me So

by FelicisQuill2



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Darkish Bellamy, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friends to Lovers, High School, Home Alone, Jealous Clarke, Pining Clarke, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-05-13 05:53:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 25,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14743187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FelicisQuill2/pseuds/FelicisQuill2
Summary: Clarke's personal life is crumbling around her, and the Blake house is her only refuge.**~~**"Just pretend I'm some girl you picked up at GoSci."Bellamy's hand forms a fist, and she knows he's warring with himself when his jaw clenches."I can't," he snaps."Why not?"He takes a measured step toward her, backing her up toward the wall, then another."Because none of them matter."





	1. Darkness Rises

 

_"When the night has come_

_And the land is dark_   

_And the moon is the only light we'll see,_

_No I won't be afraid, no I won't be afraid_

_Just as long as you stand, stand by me."_  

_~Ben E. King, "Stand by Me"_

 

It was stupid, idiotic really. One of the least responsible things she'd ever done. She never should have trusted Wells with information like that. Her father emphatically warned her it was a secret, explained the stakes were too high to whisper a word of it. 

But she didn't listen. 

She had to open her big, fucking mouth. Had to confide the disturbing secret to her best friend with his earnest, brown eyes and warm hand on hers. 

_"Clarke, whatever it is, you can tell me, please," Wells pleaded in the quiet corner of the library where they played chess to avoid the chaos of their school cafeteria._

_She'd gripped the white marble knight hard between her fingers, biting her lip. Wells threw her a sympathetic smile, nodded encouragingly, reached below the table to still her shaking knee._

_"You're scaring the hell out of me. What is it?"_

_Her stomach churned, and her throat felt constricted. But she had to tell someone, and Wells was her person. In more ways than one, they were in this together._

_So leaning toward him, she whispered the words that changed everything._

_"Wells ... you know the disease that's been crippling all the babies, disfiguring their bones when they're born?"_

_He winced but didn't draw away._

_"Sure, but what about it?"_

_Clarke swallowed, tucking her long, thick blonde bangs back behind one ear._

_"My dad figured out what's causing it. His food engineering team has been researching it for months, and Wells ... it's in the food. It's from the chemicals Eligius Foods has been spraying on the crops for years now."_

_Wells blinked for a moment, but Clarke watched the dawning comprehension slowly flicker across his cheekbones._

_"Eligius Foods ... " he murmured. "Charmaine Diyoza's company."_

_"Yes, and a major contributor to our parents' campaign."_

_"Are you sure?" his eyes met hers at once. He squeezed her hand. "This is serious, Clarke. You have to be sure."_

_"I wish I wasn't."_

_"Do you think ... do they know?" The idea clearly left him horrified._

_"My mom does," Clarke spat out, feeling ill. "My dad thought he could reason with her, but she won't let anything stand in the way of the election. She says this is finally their shot to make the difference they always dreamed of."_

_They looked at each other knowingly. Thelonious, Wells' dad, and her mother Abby had been friends since law school, had fought long and hard to get their chance to craft the progressive policies they believed would benefit the most Arkadians. The campaign was in full swing now with far too much momentum going to be reigned in. Abby was so close to the lieutenant governor role. She swore to Clarke and her husband Jake she would make changes as soon as she and Thelonious were elected._

_After Jake confronted her about his work investigation findings, she fought with him night after night across the marble kitchen counter. She could taste the changes she'd make to the food and drug protection agency, she swore. Clarke knew the only things she could really taste were the tiny pills she popped at night when the puffy, purple bags crowded around her eyes._

_"But those kids ... the little babies," Wells' eyebrows nearly reached his hairline in his shock._

_"I know. It's horrible. And I don't know what to do."_

_"My dad, does he know, too?"_

_Clarke shook her head sadly._

_"He's in the dark. But if he wins, Wells, Diyoza will rule him. Mom doesn't know what the hell she's talking about. She's been bought off."_

_He pushed to his feet a moment later, but Clarke bit her nails into the caramel flesh of his forearm._

_"You can't!" she hissed it so loudly, a couple freshmen glanced up at them from the stacks. "Think what will happen to both of them when the media gets a hold of this!"_

_Wells bent back down across the table._

_"What do you expect me to do? Let them come for my dad? Watch innocent kids die? You're my best friend, but we have to do something, Clarke."_

_"We can't ruin her. I-I can't ruin her."_

_Wells' face became infused with a sympathy she found herself immediately resenting._

_"She's gone too far this time," he murmured soothingly. "And she's going to take us all down if we let her. I'm sorry. I'm sure your dad has some kind of plan, but my dad deserves to know what's going on, too. It's their lives, Clarke. It's their lives."_

_She knew, deep in her gut, that he was right. He usually was. But that didn't quell the dread that clutched at her chest as she watched him stalk away._

~~**~~  

And now her feet are slapping against the wet pavement, and the stitch in her side leaves her gasping in lungfuls of damp, rain-soaked air. There's nothing left to do but keep going. Nothing left to do but make it to the house and pray Octavia left her window open. 

It's nearly 11:30 p.m. when Clarke crosses into the overgrown lawn surrounding the old, split-level. The favorite haunt of her childhood. A minute later, her fingertips grasp at the weathered window lock, and she yanks it open, thankful it's not too high off the ground, so she can hoist herself inside. 

Octavia's with her father this weekend, that she's sure of. Her half-brother Bellamy, the arrogant bane of Clarke's childhood existence, is probably out getting trashed at GoSci and hitting on everything in a skirt like the man whore he is. It is, after all, the degenerating neighborhood's favorite hot spot. Clarke grimaces as she remembers the way Bellamy manages to call her Princess at every opportunity, an insufferable smirk on his mouth when he does. She had spent the better part of her freshman year trying to convince him to apply for colleges before the nickname surfaced. 

_"You love history too much not to go!" she'd argued one afternoon after school in his living room, tossing a pillow at the side of his head when he continued to ignore her and flipped through the TV channels._

_"Bellamy!"_

_Octavia rolled her eyes and walked off toward the kitchen in search of a soda._

_"If he doesn't want to go, he doesn't have to go, Clarke!" she'd called over her shoulder._

_"That's crap. You need to go," she turned to face him, expression bright and earnest. "You're the smartest person I know."_

_She caught the faintest hint of a smile when she said it, and as he tugged his hand through his thick, dark curls, she found herself drawing back from him a bit, blushing._

_"You think I'm smart, Clarke?" he fixed her with a gaze that made her suddenly uncomfortable._

_She cleared her throat._

_"You know you are," she tried to recover, reaching for her glass of water. "I'm just saying you need to put that to good use and contribute to the world."_

_"We're not all as lucky as you, Princess," he'd returned._

_She'd bristled at the nickname, at the way he spit the syllables at her, immediately._

_"What's that supposed to mean?"_

_Bellamy leaned forward, pressing his hand for just a few moments to the bit of skin on the inside of her left leg beside her knee. She felt like she'd been splashed by scalding water._

_"It means we don't all have rich dads to take care of everything. Some of us have to work, have sisters to put through school." He stares her down, the penetrating brown of his eyes seeking out the oceans of her own._

_She reaches out her hand to-- what? She doesn't actually know. But it's racing through the air and brushing against his exposed collarbone above his T-shirt collar before she can stop herself._

_"I'm sorry." She remembers gripping his hand as his mother's coffin descended into the Earth, red roses falling over Aurora's body along with handfuls of dirt. "I wasn't thinking."_

_He rips his gaze away from hers, drawing back and shaking his head slightly._

_"Forget it, Princess," he retorts drily, and the spell is broken. "What are you still doing here, anyway? Don't you need to pick up a new tiara at the mall?"_

 ~~**~~

The Griffins and Jahas used to live in Arkadia Heights too when Clarke was a little girl. She remembers summer afternoons spent making flower crowns with Octavia while Bellamy and Wells sprayed them with water guns until they shrieked and cried. But those days are long gone, and rides on the city bus have been replaced by country clubs and gated communities. The Blakes, however, raised by their single mother who died three years ago from uterine cancer, were never so lucky as to escape. People get choked like weeds here. 

Sighing, she hoists her duffle bag onto the faded, fluffy carpet and, brushing raindrops off her arms, glances around. Yes, it's quiet. Almost peaceful in an eerie sort of way. Nothing to remind her of the screams that ripped from her mother's throat when Jake and Thelonious appeared side-by-side during the exclusive CNN interview. She slams her eyelids shut against the images that swim up of the intervention staged in her living room just hours before. Her mother's shoulders seemed so thin and frail as they climbed up to her ears and she shrunk into the patterned pillows, starting to cry. 

Thelonius was the reason her mother was going to rehab, the reason her father was left with tears sliding down his cheeks, fingertips clutching the doorway as the van carrying his wife away pulled out of their driveway. He'd always done the best he could, but this time it just wasn't enough. 

Clarke should feel relieved that it was all over after so many weeks of pent-up fear and anxiety. Relieved that Diyoza had been unmasked for the devil she was. Relieved that no more poor, helpless children would suffer with a bone-wasting disease. 

Instead, all she felt was rage. 

~~***~~

It's as she suspected, she's home alone. Well, in the Blake home alone. She wonders if her father will even notice her absence until the morning. She imagines him locked away in his study with a bottle of whisky flipping through old photo albums and remembering happier days. 

She brushes her teeth and slips on a pair of lavender sleep shorts and a matching tank top and curls up under Octavia's blankets. They smell like honey and cocoa butter, and there's something comforting about the sure and steady face of Lincoln, Octavia's boyfriend, smiling down at her from the photo collage hung over the bed. Octavia looks free in the nearest photo of the couple with colorful water slides tangled behind them. Her hair's streaming down her back, and she's laughing while Lincoln beams. 

It seems to take hours, but eventually, Clarke falls asleep. 

It's the clang of thunder that wakes her, a swell of rumbling that shakes the house and rises upward, sending tremors down the walls. She hears a high-pitched yell next that sends her eyes snapping open and launches her toes to the floor. 

Noises are coming from the living room around the corner, another yell and the start of a whine. Clarke's electric blue eyes sweep the room and land on Octavia's old baseball bat, which she grips in her fists before moving down the pitch black hall toward the opening in the wall where hazy light flickers. 

Something sounds like a glass smashing. There's a bellowed curse and then ... laughter. Clarke heaves a deep sigh, the tight muscles of her fingers relaxing around the base of the bat when she hears Bellamy's voice. 

"I told you the bed would be better," the rumble comes. 

A woman's breathy giggle follows. 

"But this is hotter," she mewls in protest. "You said you'd fuck me over the couch when we got home, and that's what I want." 

Clarke freezes. A small wave of panic flutters in her stomach, and her mouth goes dry. 

"Oh, don't worry, I'm going to fuck you." 

Bellamy's voice sends a jolt of electricity into her spine, and she hates it. Quickly running her options through her scrambled mind, she lands on only two solutions. She can leave the way she came, though she has nowhere to go but home. Or she can make her presence known and die on the spot of embarrassment. 

The slap of skin on skin makes her breath hitch and settles the decision for her. She tiptoes toward the edge of the wall, braces herself, and peers carefully around it. It's very dark in the room, and she can't see much. But the planes of Bellamy's tan back come into focus as a passing cloud must free up a little moonlight. His muscles ripple and roll as he pistons his hips against the long-haired brunette pressed against him. 

She moans again, her mouth falling open. 

"Jesus, you're big! There. That's good. There." 

"You like that, huh?" He pulls on her hair to raise her off the back of the worn, green leather couch, hisses the words into her ear. But Clarke can hear every letter. "You want me deep in that pussy, don't you?" 

She hums her approval, but apparently that's not good enough. Because from her side angle, Clarke watches him squeeze the woman's left breast in his palm, capturing her nipple as she moans. A gush of moisture seeps straight into Clarke's polite lace white underwear, and she has no idea what the fuck to do. 

"Say it, Echo. Tell me what you want," he says lowly, halting his movements and forcing the brunette's eyes open somehow. 

"You, God, I want you" she chokes out. 

She reaches a sinewy arm up to capture the back of his neck, starts yanking his mouth to hers, and Clarke senses the wave of sickening heat pulse through her bloodstream. 

"Bellamy!" she calls out shakily from where she stands. 

Everything moves in slow motion after that. Their two bodies still completely, and Bellamy levels her with such a look of disbelief she wishes she could evaporate on the spot. 

"Who the fuck are you?" Echo snaps, surprisingly unashamed of her nakedness. Her accusing eyes flash to Bellamy. "Who the fuck is she?" 

"Goddammit, Clarke!" he yells, "Turn around for a minute or something, would you!" 

Clarke takes a deep breath, the color rising in his cheekbones doing something strange to her legs, before doing as he asks. There's the sound of scampering around the room, of clothes being pulled on, before she hears Bellamy murmuring something that sounds like, " ... little sister's friend ... grew up together ... family problems." 

She keeps her back pressed firmly against the hallway wall, unwilling to watch him kiss her again, touch her again. There's the sound of conversation buzzing soft and furious, but Clarke can't make out the words. Finally--

"I'll call you tomorrow?" Bellamy's rumble is back at normal volume. 

"Fine," Echo returns. "I want a raincheck." 

Clarke can hear the smirk in his voice when he replies. 

"Believe me. I do too." 

The click of the door sounds over a low build of thunder and then Bellamy is yanking her by the elbow toward the alcove housing a round, wooden breakfast table. 

"What's going on, Clarke? What are you doing here?" Heat rolls off his torso as he looms over her, and his face is hard set and maybe a fraction confused. 

She could cry to him. Tell him that she lost her mother today, that her father hates her, that her best friend betrayed her. She could reach farther back six weeks ago and talk about the day she found out about Raven and the promise of Finn scattered like scraps of paper on the wind. 

Her mind's not working right because he's too close, and she just saw him having sex with whoever the hell that girl was and his freckles stand out in stark relief across the bridge of his nose. They always distracted her, his damn freckles. 

Bellamy's breath comes in huffs, and his large hand lands lightly on her upper arm. 

"Clarke," he tries again. "Tell me why you're here. Are you ok?" 

Apparently, he's pretty unfazed by the whole she just saw him fucking someone thing. She shifts nervously from foot to foot, and the small action inadvertently shakes her breasts where they rest in her lazy tank top. Bellamy's eyes drift down for only a second before landing back on her face. But it's enough. 

She might not know much about how all of this works, but she knows he's got to be pretty sexually frustrated right now since she forced him to stop in the middle of the act. Willing her wrist not to shake, she lays her palm in the middle of his chest through his thin white shirt. His mouth opens, and she watches him wet his lips. 

"I'm here for you," she looks right at him as she says it. 

He sniffs. 

"No, you’re not, Princess. Try again." 

Clarke inches closer to him, brushing her hair out of her eyes. 

"It doesn't matter why I came here. It matters why I'm still standing here." 

His heartbeat is a slightly unsteady drumbeat against her skin. 

"Ok," the warmth of his breath ghosts over her nose. "Why - " he pulls his hand off her arm and then removes her palm from his chest and crosses his arms over it instead. "Are you still here?" 

Bellamy's biceps are too large, and suddenly, she's desperate for them to hold her down. 

"I ... " she wets her lips, and his eyes track the sweep of her tongue. "I want you to ..." She takes a ridiculously large breath. "I want you to fuck me," she forces her eyes to stay on his. 

He blinks, mouth twitching in a way she knows from experience means he's close to laughter. 

"No you don't," he scoffs, stepping back away from her, his tangy musk swirling in his wake. 

Whatever she was expecting, it wasn't that.

"Yes, I do!" she steps back into his space, taking a fistful of his shirt and yanking it closer to her to make her point. Her left leg wraps around his right one, and she arches her hips forward in search of a flat, hard bit of muscle to press against the core of her sleep shorts. Her hand feels foreign on his back, but she rubs little circles into it with her thumb anyway. 

"No, you don't!" Bellamy returns, angry this time, stepping completely away. "You're obviously upset about something and confused--"

"I'm not confused about what I want!" Clarke's this close to stamping her foot. 

She invades his personal space once more when he rakes a hand through his hair. Soon, her wrists meet around his neck. She has no idea where this brazenness has come from. 

"Please, Bellamy? I want you," she bats her eyelashes at him, her eyes sparkling and pleading. 

The notion has settled in her bones and won't let go now. Maybe it's been there for longer than she's cared to admit. 

"Clarke--" he says warningly, but his fingers slide to the dip of her waist. 

"I want you to fuck me like you fucked Echo," she threads the words into his neck, trying to nuzzle closer to him. The peaks of her breasts rub against his chest. 

His breath comes out in a hiss. Her heart plummets when he's silent for many long seconds. 

"You shouldn't ask for something you're not ready for," he settles on, taking a step back from her, even as she tries to stay connected to him. 

Sometimes she forgets the age difference between them. But right now, the four years stretch and linger and last. 

"I'm ready for it," Clarke steels herself and stares into his smirk. "Just pretend I'm some girl you picked up at GoSci." 

Bellamy's hand forms a fist, and she knows he's warring with himself when his jaw clenches. 

"I can't," he snaps. 

"Why not?" 

He takes a measured step toward her, backing her up toward the wall, then another. 

"Because none of them matter." 

She lets out a little gasp when he pushes her hips into the speckled vanilla paint. 

"Bellamy ..." 

"Don't get too excited, Princess." His hand gently squeezes her hip, and she's embarrassed to feel her pelvis push toward him that easily. "I don't think you can take it." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is in direct response to Shifting Sands and how I just can't take the angst anymore. So I'll take it upon myself to relieve the Bellarke sexual tension one way or another. I don't know, so I'm sorry or you're welcome. Either way we're all in Hell.


	2. After All, You Do Know Best

"Oh, I can take it," Clarke grunts. She didn't realize she was breathing any heavier than normal, but as Bellamy stops talking, it becomes harder to ignore the sound of her pants. "I want to take it." 

 

 

"Shhhh." His hand flutters up the crinkles in her top, and it's almost calming. But there's something placating in the spark of his irises, that goddamn smirk threatening at the corner of his lips. 

 

She's still his kid sister's best friend with presumably larger breasts than she had when he taught her how to make a three-point shot in the driveway. It's easy to see that. 

 

"What's this really about, Clarke?" 

 

Her hands twitch and buzz with the urge to shake his shoulders, to make him realize she just needs this right now, needs to forget and feel  _good_. As strained as their relationship can be, she never doubts for a moment that he's the only one that can do this for her. That knows her. She doesn't care if it hurts a little. If he was on top of her, she doubts it would seem wrong. 

 

"Come on, Princess." Bellamy's honeyed voice tugs her back toward the present. 

 

She watches with widening eyes as his palms flatten along the wall next to her shoulders. 

 

"Bellamy,  _please."_

 

The gush of salty liquid flowing up from behind her eyeballs makes her want to scream. It's not the weight of the day, the last number of weeks, her life that's causing the surge of tears. It's his face - the half-stunned expression he's giving her like he's never seen her properly before, never given any thought to the depths of her desperation. 

 

When the thought smacks into her brain, her knees give a little. He doesn't want her, after all. Probably never did. There was a look last year though; she can call it up instantly. It was at Miller's pool party when she debuted her red-and-white polka dot bikini sprawled out in a lawn chair hoping to brown a bit in the sun. 

 

" _Aren't the ruffles a little much, Princess?"_

_Bellamy's eyebrows curved like half-ovals, and he slid his sunglasses down his nose to take her in._

_"Maybe that's how I like it." She smiled despite herself._

_He shook his head, a dry, half-laugh escaping him._

_"Whatever the hell you want, kid."_

_She ignored the swoop in her stomach, reaching for a magazine instead when he walked away. But once her face was safely concealed behind an advertisement for fall's best handbags, she peeked over at him cracking open a beer with Murphy, shoving the younger guy's shoulder then ruffling his hair. When he brought the bottle to his mouth, he glanced back at her, and her eyes fell like a stone to read why fuchsia was "in," the scarlet rising in her cheeks despite her heavy sunblock._

"You don't know what you're saying, and I don't know why you're saying it." 

 

The words flutter like a butterfly by her ear, and she sucks in a deep breath, realizing he's moved closer to her during her daydream. The scratchy end of his curl skates across her forehead. Shock zings through her ribcage when he pins her wrists to her sides and bends down. 

 

"I'm sure you don't mean it." 

 

_I mean it! I do!_ She wants to scream it out, pound her fists into his chest until he listens and understands. 

 

But after all these years, all their  _talking,_ he can't hear her anymore. It all sounds the same, pure radio static. Like a bond that's not quite friendship or family, but a weird twist of the two peppered with a few cups of tension just for good measure. 

 

"I mean it," she spits, half-angry, yanking her right hand free and sliding it straight into his curls, clutching them tightly. "I need it to be you." 

 

Rising onto her tiptoes, she stops when the tip of her nose is two inches from his, gaze darting into the depths of crystallizing brown. 

 

"Can't take it back," he hums, low. She can smell the rum on his breath. 

 

"I don't want to take it back." 

 

"And what if I don't want to ruin you?" 

 

She blinks at the sudden harshness that seeps into his tone. 

 

_This is new._

"You wouldn't." 

 

"You don't know what I would do. You haven't been in this situation before." 

 

His fingers skim the skin of her neck and chest, coasting lower toward the softer swells of her breasts pressed against the fabric which offers no support. 

 

"Not with you." 

 

That glimmer of hardness is back in his eyes as his fingers still. The lub-dub of her heartbeat sings through her veins, pooling blood in her ears. Outside, a streak of jagged, silver lightning decorates the sky much too close for her liking. 

 

Bellamy's Adam's apple bobs. 

"That asshole with the floppy hair, right?" 

 

"None of your business." 

 

His laughter is cold and sharp. 

 

"Excuse me?" he draws back but not before trailing his hand up to cup the very underside of her breast. 

 

The effect is immediate, and she silently curses her too-fair skin tone. 

 

"You're the one who burst into _my house_  and ruined  _my_ night,  _Princess_. Then you start begging me to fuck you out of nowhere. I think I have the right to ask a question or two." 

 

He narrows his eyes at her like she's a Rubik's cube he can slot into place. 

 

"Ruined your night," she scoffs. "Right. Why don't you just go jerk off in the shower? Kill two birds with one stone and wash that cheap whore off of you." 

 

"Careful," Bellamy throws up his arm as she tries to push past him, tired of word games they always seem to play. "Your jealousy's showing." 

 

"You're such an ass," she growls from a place low in her throat. 

 

Bellamy's smile is carnal, lit by another flash of lightning that also throws Aurora's old china cabinet into relief. Clarke watches a few flower-patterned plates tremble with the next roll of thunder. He traces his thumb down her jawbone, over the cleft in her chin before pushing it lightly against the seam in her lips. She wants to bite it but settles for licking the tip of it instead. 

 

"You could have left," he whispers it close to the skin of her neck where the sweat caused by his nearness is starting to rise up and glisten. "Climbed out that damn window I know you climbed through and went home. But instead you wanted to  _watch._ That's kind of fucked up, Clarke." 

 

"Well maybe I'm kind of fucked up," she murmurs it to the tired floor, digging her pink painted toes into the worn carpet fibers. 

 

Two fingers glide under her chin, lifting her face up to his when she tries to look away. 

 

"I didn't realize you were dirty like that, Princess." 

 

She musters the last bit of resolve she has left. 

 

"What's it to you, Blake? Just let me go." 

 

At some point his free hand found her hip and bit down on the meatier curve of flesh there. He clutches it harder now, drawing her gasp that morphs into an embarrassing moan. 

 

"I don't think so," his decision travels into his eyes in a split second. "You're not going anywhere." 


	3. Something You Don't, Darling

Clarke narrows her icy eyes at him. "Excuse me?" 

 

"You heard me," he grunts. 

 

She blinks just once in her confusion, and her momentary surprise is enough for Bellamy to grab her by the waist and hoist her up into his arms. 

 

"What are you doing?!" she yells louder than she intended. 

 

"Giving you what you wanted." 

She knocks her fists feebly against his shoulders as his fingers bite into the muscle of her hip and wrap her legs around his waist. At this angle, she can feel his dick pressing into the top of her thigh and squeezes her eyes shut, reminding herself about the girl he was just with, the one who slammed the door on her way out. She tries not to grind down on him, arching her hips up and away toward her spine. 

"Put me down, Bellamy!" Clarke cuts her nails into his biceps and thrashes harder. But his arms are iron bands around her, holding her close.   


"In a minute," is the only response she gets. 

The long hallway is full of shadows and the steady sound of raindrops hitting the roof as he strides down it. Clarke's sure that he's about to dump her on Octavia's bed, but as they reach the end of the hall, he turns right unexpectedly and enters his own room instead. She's dropped gently enough onto his made bed but scampers backward like a crab, trying to control the pace of her breathing. 

Bellamy's standing three feet away at the side of the bed, watching her, considering. She yanks at the cloth of her tank top, pulling it higher over her chest, and he smirks. 

"Not quite so confident now, are you?" he asks darkly. 

Her forehead wrinkles while she weighs the options out in her brain. His hair's messed up, and the T-shirt he's wearing shows off how much time he spends at the gym. She'd felt a stab of electricity between her legs when he'd held her against him, and she wants to explore it. Isn't that why she came out into the dim light of the living room in the first place? But still, something about how his eyes never leave hers is heating up her whole body with a sort of intensity she's kind of afraid of. 

"That's not it," she lies. 

"Mmm," he presses his lips together and slides his hands deeply into his pockets. She wonders for a moment if he's touching himself. The thought doesn't help. "Could have fooled me." 

"What the hell's wrong with you?" 

"I tried asking you that before, and I didn't get an answer that made sense." A certain fierceness takes over his features that causes her to gulp. 

" _Clarke,"_  the tone is pure grit now. _"_ You don't want to talk about it?" 

She shakes her head. 

There's a long pause that kick starts her heart. 

"Fine." 

 

The relief pulses through her veins at the more genuine smile that lightens his cheekbones and brings a sparkle back to his eyes. But it's immediately mixed with a sour disappointment that it's over. Her chance gone. The gamble a flop. He'll leave her here to sleep through the miserable night, Octavia's stupid friend who embarrassed herself almost past the point of believability. If she's lucky, their friends will never hear about it. Bellamy's not the type to gossip, but, if she's honest with herself, she knows a story like this might be too ridiculous to keep quiet, and the thought brings a fresh flush to her cheeks. 

 

"Hey?" She ignores him, staring resolutely at his bookshelf. "Princess, look at me." 

 

The mattress creaks when he lowers the weight of his fist into its cushion, somewhere near her left foot. He's leaning across the bed toward her, one of his knees sinking into the blankets while his other foot remains on the floor. She meets his eyes very reluctantly only when he sweeps away a cluster of blonde frizzies from her temple. 

 

"Whatever it is, it'll seem better in the morning," he sighs and straightens back up. "Go back to Octavia's room, get some rest. I can drive you home tomorrow." 

 

She draws her knees up to her chest, tucking her chin between them. It gives her the impression of a sad doe. She hates herself when a single tear courses down her cheek. She couldn't even seduce him right. It's supposed to be the easiest thing in the world, something she knows innately how to do, something she actually, mostly,  _wants_  to do. And still she can't. For a moment, she hopes it's dark enough that Bellamy won't notice, but he squeezes her calf reassuringly, and it just makes her feel worse. 

 

"Everything's going to be fine." 

 

He grabs a clean, black T-shirt and pair of boxers from his drawer. 

 

"I'm going to take a shower." His shoulder jerks up a little strangely. "You good?" 

 

Clarke glances somewhere in the vicinity of his torso and nods. 

 

"Don't worry about it. It's ... ah, forgotten," he says a little awkwardly, and the nausea returns in full force. He's almost fully into the hallway when he pauses and turns to look back at her, "But hey, Clarke?" 

 

Her face snaps up to his. 

 

"Yeah?" 

 

"You owe me for breaking up my date with Echo. She was  _hot_." 

 

Eyes going wide, she scrambles for the first object her fingers can reach on his desk, a rainbow slinky of all stupid things, and flings it at him. But he's already retreated from view, laughing as he goes. 

And suddenly, she's fuming again, warmth pulsing right under her skin as she knocks her head against the wall. Now there's an ache between her legs she won't be able to satisfy here and a low burning for the guy who put it there. She walks a few laps around his bedroom, fingers barely brushing over an ancient spelling bee trophy he won in eighth grade. She remembers sitting in the packed audience of the suffocatingly hot gymnasium and cheering like crazy for him, the nerd. 

That's when it hits her. He's still  _Bellamy_ hidden somewhere underneath the tight abs and cocky smirk and whisky-drinking bravado. It should be enough to give her the upper hand. Not giving herself much time to think about it lest she talk herself out of her plan, she scurries across the hall into Octavia's room. Stripping quickly, she riffles through her overnight bag until locating the soft, silky cranberry robe that hits right above her knees. She ties it securely around her waist then walks over to the mirror to check her reflection and smooth down her hair. 

Satisfied, she takes a deep breath and crosses back to Bellamy's room, yanking down his dark grey checked covers and slides beneath them to wait. 


	4. Once Bitten, Twice Shy

 

 

_"I wanna love you, but I better not touch (don't touch)_

_I wanna hold you, but my senses tell me to stop._

_I wanna kiss you, but I want it too much (too much)_

_I wanna taste you, but your lips are venomous poison."_

_~Alice Cooper, "Poison"_

Bellamy groans loudly as cool water crashes down over his freckled shoulders at maximum blast. This was  _not_  how he saw his night going. Yeah, he'd been on the prowl at GoSci, and he'd found Echo playing darts with some friends in the corner, hadn't he? He'd recognized her from his Ancient Civilizations class where she sat two rows in front of him and normally wore some glossy, brown side braids woven delicately along the side of her head. She was kind of hard not to notice, to be honest. Striking, in an Amazonian model kind of way. Tyra Banks would approve, he thought with a chuckle. So when he approached her with a drink in hand, a smirk and a casual, "I bet you hit the bullseye every time," he'd felt good when she smiled back and invited him to join. 

 

But now ... shit. 

 

He glances down at his blatantly growing erection, half wondering if he should march back down the hall and demand Clarke put her money where her mouth is. 

 

_Get a grip, Blake._

He can't do that. He knows he can't do that. Even though he sort of wants to. Slim, bronze shoulders and a willowy frame should be consuming his mind right now. Yet all he can focus on is that little mole over Clarke's lip, and the way her breasts shook slightly when she arranged herself on his bed. On. His. Bed. Her pleading eyes when she begged her to fuck him.  

 

He's not an idiot. He wants to be a history professor, for God's sake. He's a smart enough person who, since he turned 21, has started bar tending to make extra money for himself and Octavia to supplement his security guard role at Thelonius Jaha's huge legal practice downtown. So for a guy who's trying hard to get ahead in life, you wouldn't think he'd be stupid enough to even be  _considering_  fucking around with Clarke, who's underage and the daughter of his boss' best friend. Not to mention the best friend of his sister. The girl he drove to Girl Scout meetings when she was 12 and overly proud of how well she could draw maps to navigate through the woods. 

 

_This is wrong. This is wrong. This is wrong._

It's the mantra he chants as he wraps his fist around his dick and begins to steadily stroke himself, mind lost in tangling his body around a petite blonde's soft curves. 

 

~~**~~ 

 

When he finishes rinsing the conditioner out of his hair, Bellamy considers the thought of going back to his room. But it's not one he finds even remotely appealing. Staring up into the darkness and watching his ceiling fan whir while Clarke sleeps across the hall from him is more than he can handle at the moment. She'd looked, for a moment, peaceful when he told her she didn't have to talk about whatever caused her to break into his house during a rainstorm. While he doesn't want to pry, he also knows she's not the type of girl to run unless things are really bad. The fact that she ran here, to his house, knowing full well that Octavia was gone for the weekend... Let's just say it's not helping the situation. 

 

Then again, if she came to his house to feel safe and get away from whatever shit's going on in her life, why the hell did she proposition him? He shakes his head, toweling his hair dry and slipping quickly into his clothes. It must be all the campaign attention getting to her, he figures. He wipes the condensation off his mirror and watches himself slowly come into focus. His head feels clearer, less fuzzy from alcohol. Maybe he should have some coffee. He hopes Octavia remembered to pick some up from the market this week, but she's been too wrapped up in Lincoln lately to remember much.  

 

Sighing, he trudges down the hall and begins rifling through the cabinets in the quiet kitchen, on the hunt for dark roast. His best bet is getting lost in Game of Thrones for a while. At least between the fantasy, bloody sword fights and constantly half-naked woman, he should be safely preoccupied until he drifts to sleep. 

 

~~**~~

 

It's been 29 minutes, but it feels like 29 years. Clarke emits a breathy sigh and rubs her thighs together for a little, light friction. She's wanted nothing more than to slip her fingers past the smooth cloth of her robe ever since Bellamy left to shower, but she stopped herself. 

 

She hasn't touched herself, hasn't let anybody else touch her since that night with Finn in his basement after the party. It had been so dark, and she didn't really know what she was doing. His breath was hot in her ear. His zipper scratched into the skin of her stomach. Honestly, it was over fast, and it was more than a little painful. She'd had the presence of mind through the beers she'd drank to insist on protection, and though he'd murmured to her how beautiful she was afterward on the faded, worn-down sofa, she still squirmed a little when his fingers trailed down the length of her arm. Exactly one week later, the lying asshole's girlfriend Raven transferred to Arkadia High, arriving completely unannounced. They'd been making out dramatically beside the stone bird fountain in the courtyard during lunch. That's how she found out.

 

Still, Finn had the audacity to lean against her metal locker three days later, blinking up at her with puppy dog eyes and brown, floppy hair, begging her to reconsider, telling her that what they had was special. 

 

Yeah. Special. That was it. What a sparkly way to lose her virginity.     

 

Something, maybe it's the naive part of her, believes Bellamy would be better. That he at least cares about her on some sort of deeper level. It wouldn't be anywhere near the extent that she cares about him, of course, but ... she'd take what she could get. She just needs to be patient, she scolds herself. She needs to wait for him and then plead her case like the good legal scholar her mother's been training her up to be. 

 

The thing is though ... he doesn't come back. She heard the water stop running a few minutes ago and some general clanging in the vicinity of the kitchen, but that's been it. 

 

_Where is he?_

Sucking another deep breath in through her nose just as a particularly nasty streak of white lightning ricochets across the cloud-and-star specked sky, Clarke begins padding toward the kitchen. She catches Bellamy's shadow before she turns the final corner fully - his wild, mussed hair in crazy spirals against the wall while his torso twists as he opens and shuts the refrigerator. The smell of cinnamon coasts through the air, and the low hum of conversation floats in from the living room. Craning her head, she can see it's Game of Thrones. It looks like pretty early in the series because Arya's still got a baby face and is dressed in a floor-length gown. 

 

Clarke knocks gently along the wall. 

 

"Bellamy?" 

 

"I thought you were sleeping," he faces her, surprised. 

 

She throws him a fleeting half-smile before looking away. 

 

"I can't sleep knowing I'm alone in a house with you." 

 

Bellamy rubs a palm across his face and groans. 

 

He mutters something that sounds like, "The gods must be crazy." 

 

From a side wall, a loud clock ticks. 

 

"Want some ice cream?" he asks. His face is unreadable. 

 

"Not exactly what I was craving." 

 

Bellamy raises his eyebrows at her. 

 

She shrugs. 

 

"I guess it'll have to do," she widens her eyes in that quintessential Clarke-Griffin-trying-to-play-it-cool pose. 

 

"Mint chocolate chip it is," Bellamy gestures her toward the living room, inviting her, she assumes, to take a seat on the couch. 

 

He arrives a minute later with two generous bowls full of ice cream with some chocolate sprinkles tossed on top of hers because he knows what she likes. For a while, they watch the episode quietly. It is late in first season, she was right. Ned Stark is confessing to treason on screen, proclaiming Joffrey as the rightful heir of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. Beside her, Bellamy's bronze knee twitches every so often. The desire to calm him overcomes her, and she finally reaches out a purposeful hand, sliding it across his cool skin. 

 

" _Clarke_  ... don't do that." 

 

"Why not? I thought I owed you for breaking up your date," she watches him from under her eyelashes. 

 

Beside one tick of his jaw, he gives nothing away. 

 

"I was just screwing around. You know you can always come here if you need to, if something happens." 

 

His tone is sort of gruff, but his face remains pointed to the screen, and a few water droplets slide from his hair down his neck. She wants to lick them off.

 

"Bellamy?" She taps twice on his knee before pulling her hand away. 

 

He's forced to rip his eyes from the screen and look at her. Her robe is shining in the plasma glow. It's too sexy, he thinks immediately. Tight and rimmed with black lace, flaring in at her waist and showing too much creamy thigh where it's rucked up. His eyes widen as she carefully begins untying the ribbon wrapped around her waist. 

 

"You shouldn't do that," he warns her. His black pupils expand to eat his lighter irises. 

 

Her face is determined and a little confused. It's cute. 

 

"Why not?" she snaps. "Because I'm not as pretty as the girls you normally fuck?" 

 

His head snaps back at that one. 

 

"What?" He can't help it; he moves a little closer to her, the couch sagging with his weight. She thinks she can just see his pulse at his neck. 

 

"I can't think of another reason," Clarke mumbles, trying to unravel the tight knot that she created at her hip. 

 

It's the shadow of his body rising over hers that makes her pause. 

 

" _Because,"_ he says roughly, warm hand latching around her waist, "If you pull that off, I'm not stopping myself. So really think about it for a minute, Princess. What's your actual endgame?" 

 

His heat leaches into her skin and calms her, even as his eyes scare her a little. How does he manage that? With one more tug, the knot unfurls, and the gloss and sheen slip from her shoulders, pooling around her waist and exposing her dusky rose nipples to him. She gets a jolt of pleasure watching him react to her breasts. But his eyes track their way back to hers eventually. 

 

"My  _endgame,"_ she says as steadily as she can. "Is that I don't want to watch you fucking other girls anymore." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General note that Darkish Bellamy will be returning in the next chapter. I’m not sure quite how *dark* it’s going to get, but I don’t anticipate it being vanilla. Also, with the cute elements of the backstory established, expect a little pain and angst that gets channeled in interesting ways. Thanks for reading!


	5. You Can't Hide (I See You)

His laughter is low and short and more of a growl. It makes goosebumps pop up all over her bare arms immediately. The light trembling in her lower lip is something she hopes he can't see. Her heartbeat wedges in her constricting throat. Dizziness sweeps into her brain. 

_Keep it together, Clarke_. 

 

"Is that all right with you?" She's trying for the condescending tone he mastered long ago, but it falls a bit flat. 

 

Bellamy raises his dark brown eyebrows like he's genuinely surprised by her cheek. 

 

"Nah, Griffin. That's not how this is gonna work." 

 

Her heart sinks clean into her stomach. She can sense him pulling away from her on the couch and tries to conceal her disappointment from showing on her face. But she yelps in surprise when Bellamy grabs her by the waist and tugs her on top of him where he rests his back on the arm of buttery leather. Her robe is half-falling to the ground now, and her breath comes in rasp. She's keenly aware of his calloused hand stroking the skin of her low back, just above her ass. Her breasts are dangling in the air between them like ripe peaches hanging from a tree, her hands scrambling to rest on the solidness of his shoulders. He traces the dip of her belly button with his free hand and stares directly into her alarmed eyes. 

 

"I ask the questions now." 

 

The words cause her cunt to clench, and one hand slips to the forest green material below them to steady herself. She braces the other more securely on the ball of his right shoulder. 

 

"So you don't want me hooking up with other girls, huh?" Bellamy's stubble scratches the tender skin at the top of her breast. He sinks his teeth into the fleshiest portion, and she gasps but doesn't try to move. He laves at the area with his tongue after, making it red and shiny with saliva as the blood rushes there. 

 

The hand at her back slips diagonally across her hip and down toward her inner thigh. "That must mean ..." Bellamy pauses, taking the time to draw her more fully against his hardening dick, bucking his hips into her once, then again, harder. "You really do want me to fuck you." 

 

She bites back her moan. 

 

"Which is what I've been  _saying_  for the last hour if you'd been listening--"

 

Her anger flares at his attitude, devours the acid sloshing around her insides for only a moment or two. Then her hip is being deftly pushed over and down into the hard line of his muscular thigh. The robe bunches up below her, the only protection between her spread legs and his hot skin. The material sticks to her center, but she figures he'll like that. 

 

"I heard you," he interrupts her. "And now I wanna hear you make yourself come grinding on me. Think you can do that?" 

 

Her eyes narrow momentarily because his voice has never sounded like such decadent poison brewed to destroy her. His thumb continues its slow, insistent rub across her stomach before trailing to her side and back to her spine. But his eyes don't leave hers. "Come on, Princess. Show me what you got." 

 

The dive toward his mouth is ill-advised and comes out of the tightness pressing at her chest. So she plummets like a falling bird, but he catches her by the chin at the last moment. At first, she's too surprised to be embarrassed. 

 

"I don't think that's a good idea," he whispers it to her in the blackness as light flickers from the TV and highlights the silver-white strands of her hair. She can make out the sharp planes of his cheekbones and jaw, but his expression is closed and remote. 

 

Surprise disintegrates into devastation in three seconds. Her stomach revolts, and sweat rises along her neck and up the curve of her back. He must notice how stiff her muscles become, marble under his fingers. She wants to bolt, but her legs are all tangled up in the damn robe that she now tries hastily to pull back up around her shoulders while snapping her legs closed. 

 

"Hey, hey, hey," he stills her frantic movements. But she continues to thrash against him, unwilling to look anywhere in the vicinity of his face. His voice is so soothing and calm that she wants to slap him.

 

"Let me go, Bellamy!" she protests. 

 

"I just don't want to blur the lines, Princess. This way it can be what you need it to be." 

 

Her mouth crinkles into an ugly line.

 

"How do you know what I need it to be?" She spits the words at him. Her brain's whirring too fast to keep up with, and the room around her seems to fade into nothing. There's just Bellamy, Bellamy and his solid, confident gaze and frustrating strength. 

 

"Because I know you," he shrugs too casually. "I know you need to be seen..." the flat of his palm runs up her ribs to her large breast where he tweaks the nipple, "touched," he murmurs against her collarbone. His lips find the tender spot below her ear and latch on greedily until she gasps, "Heard." She knows he's grinning into the dip of her neck, the arrogant bastard. "That's what you want, Clarke. Right?" 

 

He seeks some kind of confirmation that seems to run deeper than his simple question, deeper than oceans. He knows her as well, maybe better, than she knows herself. But it's always been friendly, really, if she made herself decide. They've been close in that boy-next-door kind of way where she helped pick out his silky emerald tie to match Roma's prom dress, giggling on his bed while he mimed hanging himself for having to go to an organized dancing function. They've always been free and easy with their affection - when they weren't fighting - but she's never felt like she  _needed_ him the way she does now. Like nobody else could ever do, maybe would ever do. The thought steals her breath, feels like a tidal wave coming toward her when she's completely unprepared for the storm. 

 

Clarke steals a glance back into his brown eyes and gives a gentle nod of assent. At least there's the hope of euphoria to stave off the madness building within her. 

 

"Then it's better to keep the lines drawn where they need to be." 

 

"Mhmm," she murmurs quietly, clutching too hard at his waist. She cuts her nails into him a little, but he refuses to wince.  _Power play._ The idea of not being able to kiss him fills her with frustration - and a sense of loss that sours her stomach. 

 

"So then you're gonna give yourself to me like a good girl." He leans up and noses against her porcelain jaw. "Right?" 

 

She gasps when one of his thick fingers wedges itself between her legs and begins a gentle rub on her clit. Sparks of unexpected bliss warm her stomach and blossom up toward her chest. Bellamy Blake is touching her. And, though, if she were really and truly honest with herself, she would have seen this coming... she really,  _really_ likes it. 

 

"Maybe," she manages. 

 

Bellamy stills his hand and starts rubbing swirling patterns up her creamy thighs instead. 

 

"What do you mean, maybe? Are you trying to negotiate with me?" 

 

Clarke snaps her eyes open wide at him once, and he laughs genuinely. It makes her happy, gives her the courage to run a hand back along his jawline to pet the stubble there. Maybe there's still hope. 

 

"What if I am?" 

 

"Then I'd call you a Brave Princess." 

 

She untangles the robe and allows it to slide to the floor in a heap, leaving her naked and exposed to his wandering gaze. Clarke can't even look at him now, but rises from the couch and walks slowly through the cramped room past the coffee table and nearer the fireplace's mantle. 

 

"Clarke ... you know there's a word for getting a guy all worked up and not delivering, don't you?" The darkness is back when he stands up. 

 

She purses her lips at him. 

 

"Is that all this is?" 

 

Bellamy scoffs, flings out his arms. 

 

"What the hell are you talking about? That's what you said you wanted it to be!" 

 

She thinks about that for a long moment then crosses the gap to him in several, graceful strides. She's nervous as hell, but she has to say it. There's the urgent sense that _her Bellamy_ is under this facade. And, well, if he's not... she's already in Hell as it is at this point.  

"If ... if I..." 

 

"Spit it out, Clarke. What?" He folds his impressive arms across his chest. She's waiting for him to stamp his foot, but he doesn't. 

 

"If I, um, make you feel good, then can I kiss you? Maybe?" 

 

She's rarely seen Bellamy look heartbroken, but it's the word that passes through her when his eyes find hers. He huffs loudly, shoulders slumping. He reaches down to the ground and wraps her robe around her himself. 

 

"Who made you feel like this, Clarke? Like you weren't special?" he asks while sliding it on. 

 

The tears are sharp and salty, back once more to wreck havoc on her face. She burrows into his open arms and presses a kiss to his clothed breastbone to stop herself from blubbering. He wraps his arms around her tightly, and yeah, this is the only home she needs for now. 

 

"You deserve the best," he leans down to whisper in her ear. "Someone who's going to treat you like the Princess you are. Not some stupid high school kid on his skateboard who doesn't know his ass from his elbow, all right? Give it some time - there will be a lot of guys in college." 

 

Numbness is seeping into her limbs; they're starting to tingle and burn like an ice-white fire eating her whole. 

 

"Bellamy!" she chokes out through her sob, hitting the flat of her palm into his chest before drawing back to look at him. "You know it's you for me. I ... I-I get it if you don't feel that way back, but I can't help it ... you're the only one who makes me feel better. You're ... just..." she sighs. "I need you. Even if it's only for tonight." 

 

He's gaping at her. She's afraid she's put him into shock. 

 

"Just one night, ok?" she whispers, wrapping one of his larger hands in both of hers. "Can I have all of you just for tonight?" 


	6. Eros, Himeros and Pothos

 

It's so quiet Bellamy can hear his eyes blinking. He didn't even know that was a thing. Clarke's hands tremble wrapped around his own. She looks strangely regal, the reddish robe flooding around her shoulders and standing out against her hair. He takes in the pucker of her belly button, the curves of her generous breasts just visible in the gap between the fabric. It's hard to swallow. It's hard to think. 

 

"Please, Bellamy?" Her voice is so small and unlike her. 

 

This is all an indulgence he should never afford himself, and he knows it. She's his little sister's best friend, someone he's supposed to (grudgingly) protect and look out for if she ever needs help. She's well-connected to the man who's running for governor, for God's sake. The man he  _works for_. But, honestly, her little pink tongue flitting out between her teeth is enough to do him in without any additional help. The huff of air glides out of his nose, and he runs his free hand through his hair, scratching his nails over his scalp in the hopes a little pain will knock him back to his senses. 

 

Clarke drops his hand and takes the tiniest step closer, so all the space between them falls away again. 

 

"This is what you really want?" His eyes bore down at her. 

 

She nods fervently, swiping the last tear from the dipped skin next to her nose. "This, uh, this wasn't the first time I'd seen you, you know, with someone." 

 

_What the actual fuck?_

His mouth is dry, his heart thumping a war beat in his chest. 

 

"You make a habit out of spying on me, Princess?" He draws back completely, hands on his hips, staring at her like he's never seen her before. She rubs the bottom of one foot up her calf like a lost lamb. 

 

"N-na-no," she whimpers quietly. "It was in the beach house that summer a few years ago. Your mom invited me to come, remember? And you met that girl at the arcade.... uh, Roma." 

 

His mind dips and careens back three years to a time when his mother was alive, a time when life wasn't quite so hard. They'd rented a cheap house on the water months in advance, dangling their feet over the pier and watching dolphins jump out of the frothy waves in the morning and nearly psychedelic sunsets at night. It was hot that summer, brutal, with the white sun beating on their backs, and their skin, even his skin, frying and blistering when over exposed. The arcade had been a shadowy, cool place to hang out for a few hours one afternoon. Roma worked behind the prize counter. She was tall and thin, with long, straight brown hair and an easy smile. She laughed at his jokes and let him buy her cotton candy after her shift. It had been too easy, really. 

 

"So you  _watched_ us?" he widens his eyes at her, still trying to put it together in his tired brain. 

 

He remembers inviting Roma back to the house for a cookout on the beach. And long after his mom thought she'd gone home, she'd actually slipped back into his bedroom, sliding to her knees while he sat on the edge of his bed and clutched those silky waves in his fists. Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine Clarke's golden head pressed ....  _wait, how **did**  she watch? _

 

Clarke nods hesitantly. 

 

"I was ... curious. I heard noises, and I wanted to see ... what you'd do to her. I wanted to know what would happen to me one day--"

 

"How? How did you watch?" he demands. 

 

"Oh," her smile is infinitesimal. "Your room was next to mine. The closets were back-to-back, and there was a gap between the wood planks, so I could see inside." 

 

_Leave it to him to leave the closet door wide open._

 

"Jesus, Clarke. What were you, 14?" Doing even simple math is testing his patience right now. 

 

"Almost 15," she tilts her head defiantly. 

 

"Uh-huh. So tell me something, then." He steps closer and resumes stroking her waist. "Did you like what you saw?" 

 

_Why does she smell so goddamn delicious, like wildflowers and vanilla?_

 

"You looked like you knew what you were doing," Clarke's answer is way more honest and less flirtatious than he knows what to do with. 

 

He laughs darkly.

 

"Oh, I know what the hell I'm doing, Princess. You don't have to worry about that." 

 

Her big, blue eyes are glimmering oceans, cloudless skies. He's going to drown in them. It's what he realizes whenever she steps too close. 

 

"So please show me. I need to forget." 

 

She cups his hand and presses it down between her thighs, past the slight scratch of her hair and into her delicate folds, which are  _dripping_. He grits his teeth together, runs the pad of his forefinger over her opening a couple times before flicking at her clit, just to watch her squirm. 

 

"That feel good, Princess? You gettin' excited?" The husk to his voice is foreign, and part of himself is disgusted, while the rest of him wants nothing more than to rub something slippery all over her tits and glide his cock between them until she begs him to fuck her hard and fast and dirty. 

 

"Mmmm-hmmm," she breathes, and the air from it coasts across his face, tickling his chin. 

 

He shakes his head, slips the tip of his finger inside of her and is shocked to feel her clench immediately and automatically around it. 

 

"Fuck it," he says under his breath, pulling his hand away and dragging both to her waist. "Up, Princess." 

 

He hoists her into his arms, and she quickly moves to secure her legs around his waist. He grinds his erection into her spread-open cunt, slowly and deliberately, so she feels everything. The whimper that passes her lips makes something primal flare inside him. She's light and soft in his arms, and he just wants to bury his head in her sweet-smelling neck but refrains from it, reaching down to flick the TV off instead. The abrupt silence coats the room in midnight darkness though the rain is a steady and comforting trill on the roof. Clarke's arms are wrapped securely around his neck like he remembers seeing baby chimpanzees cling to their parents on a field trip once to the Arkadia Zoo. The tentative brush of her lips to his neck causes him to grip one arm harder around her waist, the other stroking her ass. 

 

"Very last chance," he hums into her hair. 

 

"Stop it," Clarke snaps, surprisingly fierce. 

 

"Stop what?" He blinks, halting at the start of the hallway that leads toward the bedrooms. 

 

"Stop being so gentle with me." 

 

His stomach gives an uncomfortable flip. The red-blooded, Neanderthal side of him wants nothing more than to fling her onto his bed and slide his dick inside her until the sun comes up. But the part that's still struggling to grasp at his human decency - at his, well,  _affection,_ for her is clearly winning. 

 

Bellamy snorts but continues walking. Her next words make his dick harder than he thought was possible. 

"I want you to  _leave marks_ , Bellamy. I want to be sore tomorrow. If this is all I get, I don't want to forget it." 

 

She then proceeds to lay her rose-pale cheek on his shoulder, and he's actually afraid for his sanity. 

 

"I can do that, Princess," he hisses as a roll of thunder crashes, miles away. 

 

He drops her carefully on his rumpled sheets - rumpled by  _her_ he assumes - and slides his body right on top of hers, not really caring anymore what this says about him or her or them or fate or the universe or the laws of time and space. His first bruising mark is just below her collar bone and makes her gasp and grip his curls tightly. He likes how easy it is to raise flecked goosebumps along her otherwise pretty pristine skin. 

 

"I didn't know you were so  _hungry_ for it, Clarke," he tells the top of her breast, pushing her robe fully off and sinking his teeth into the fleshiest area, causing her knees to clamp around him. She skates her small hands under his shirt and up his abdomen, and white spots pop up in front of his eyes.  _This isn't normal. Pull it together._

"Not it," she corrects him, nails scraping his sides. "You." 

 

He doesn't know if she means the full-body roll that arches her spine and hips, but he takes the invitation to latch his mouth around the cherry pebble of her breast and suck it into his mouth. 

 

"Oh my God," she flops back into his pillow. "Skin," she demands, tugging at his hair. "I want to feel your skin on me." 

 

Raising his eyebrows at her once, playfully, he leans back up on his knees and yanks his shirt off, throwing it halfway across the room before crawling back between her parted thighs, bumping himself purposefully into her swelling clit several times. A flood of chilled needles prickle his bloodstream when her hand starts stroking him through the fabric of his boxers. Self-control is already slipping away, and they've barely done anything yet. 

 

"You're making me so damn hard, Griffin," he confesses, snaking a hand down to toy with her slick folds while his mouth continues marking every bit of her chest and neck he can stretch and reach. 

 

"Good," she purrs, squeezing at his earlobe and massaging the top of his freckled shoulder. "That's the way it should be." 

 

Again, his stomach clenches. Yeah, this definitely isn't normal. He's pretty sure he's never slid out of his boxers so fast in his life, and then there's really nothing that exists beside the head of his cock nestled so close to her heat that he can feel her juices slipping onto him with each minute movement. 

 

Clarke's mouth falls open in surprise when he presses a thick finger straight into her without warning. She's way too tight, clutching around him, and he can see the shiver in her thighs. 

 

"Easy," he slides it out and pushes it back in a tiny bit faster, watching her face all the while. "You'll never be able to take my cock if you can't take my finger." 

 

Her eyelashes flutter when her eyes find his. "I'll be able to take you," she promises softly, voice higher than normal, more breathy. "I was made to do it." 

 

The flash of his teeth sends a spasm of worry across her face, but when his face comes close, he simply kisses her cheek, then her forehead. "You were  _not_ made to have every Tom, Dick and Harry climb on top of you and --"

 

"No," she shushes him, cupping his face in her palms and thrusting into his hand as the heel of his palm grinds sweetly into the underside of her sensitive nub. "I was made to take  _you."_

 

She keens when his finger leaves the tight hotness of her channel, sitting up as he pulls back and following the broad expanse of his chest with her tongue. She licks and kisses him with a wildness he'd never have thought was there, not like this, not for _him_. 

 

"Jesus, Clarke, I didn't know you wanted to be a ..." 

 

The word is hanging on the tip of his tongue, but he can't say  _that_ to  _her ... can he?_

"A what?" she demands, scrambling back into his lap. It seems to be her favorite place and he doesn't really mind. If he's going to Hell anyway, he maybe should kiss her first. 

 

Her expression is questioning and still open, strangely soft for the Clarke Griffin whom he taught to shoot guns in the overgrown woods behind his house. Before he can think about it too much, he presses his mouth to hers hungrily, allowing her gasp to be his opportunity to glide his tongue against hers. She tastes like everything he's ever been looking for, but he suppresses that thought, too. 

 

Bellamy maneuvers her onto her back once more, trying to keep most of the weight on his elbows, but she wraps her arms and legs around him, pulling him closer. 

 

"A what?" she insists again as he maps her arc of her cheekbone with his finger. 

 

The smirk decorates his face faster than he can think. 

 

"A good little slut for me," he murmurs, killing any protest with his insistent mouth on hers and two fingers buried deep inside her. 


	7. Gentle Hum

Clarke is flat on her back, abs crunched enough to press her spine into the mattress at the push of Bellamy's sizable fingers between her thighs. He just called her a slut.

A slut.

Her.

And now he's kissing her, and her head's spinning with eighteen muddled thoughts at once. At first she froze, but as his petting down her rib cage and thumb brushing over her breast continues softly, she feels herself going lax beneath him. She starts kissing him back, sucking his tongue carefully, trying to set a gentler pace, surprised when he lets her. She's confused - she's really confused. He'd just said the nicest things to her about what she deserves, how she should be treated. And then he called her that.

A _slut_.

His slut.

While it's definitely not how she sees herself, not even close to remotely being true, it somehow doesn't bother her as much as she thought it might or even assumed it should. She still likes arching up to meet his mouth and the slippery drag of his rough fingertips seeking out the tiny marble of tissue that makes her buck her hips into the side of his erection because it feels too overwhelmingly good. Clarke sneaks a small, pale hand around his back and into the tough muscle above his ass, and he jerks into her leg once more as a shiver runs through her. He pulls away, lips red and swollen, and just blinks at her, mouth parted, panting.

She feels lightheaded when their eyes meet, and he looks a little shocked, not nearly as full of bravado as he did a few seconds ago. She strokes his bicep; his fingers still within her.

"What?" she asks softly.

"I shouldn't have called you that. It's not what you are ... not how I think of you." He's shaking his head, and she has the oddest sensation that his freckles are dancing.

She breathes a heavy stream of air through her nose, rolls her lower lip into her mouth, biting down on it, and flops fully onto his pillow, reaching out to stroke his curls off his forehead. A long silence bends around them like an invisible glass sphere. The hum of his heart against her skin seems too fast.

"I can be that for you. But just for you. No one turns me on like you." She brushes her nail across his nipple, and he starts back in disbelief.

It's like he's at war with himself. She watches the wrecked emotions swirl and crash against his face. He leans back on his knees, and Clarke winces a fraction when his fingers slip out of her. She knows she's wet - she can feel all the moisture pooling near her opening.

"Why would you say that?" he asks finally.

She gasps despite herself when he brings his fingers to his lips and sucks them clean.

The bloom of a blush is so intense it coats the expanse of fair skin under her neck, rising like smoke tendrils into her cheeks.

"Because I like you. Being around you makes me happy, always has."

Clarke promptly turns her face into his pillow.

"But ... Princess, still, uh, you don't want to just let guys be assholes because you _happen_ to like them. If you like someone who's acting like an asshole, that doesn't show good judgement."

Clarke can't help it. She smirks a little because he just seems so boyishly, playfully at a loss. She shrugs.

"Bellamy, you're not an asshole. You were being kind of hot before you stopped."

Something like a flame flickers in his dark eyes when he meets hers again.

"Hot, huh?" he raises his eyebrows and begins stroking up her thigh, leaving a trail of wetness in his wake.

She grins, yanking him down by the neck until his lips meet hers, and she can taste him again. Her own tangy flavor coats his tongue, and it causes a starburst of warmth in her stomach.

"It's ok," she whispers into his curls. "It's not my first time. I can take what you want to give me."

He never thought much about the interplay of arousal and anger, but the potent cocktail floods his bloodstream at her words. He has a strange, sudden desire to punch the douchebag who took her virginity, who made her feel like she had to ever be anything other than stunningly strong and alive girl he grew up with. It's the flip of a switch. He finds he doesn't want to take her hard and fast at all, pushing her hips into his mattress and gripping her trembling hands above her head. He doesn't want to watch her gasp and clench at the girth of his cock or have her leave marks on his skin from the pleasure-pain he knows he's capable of causing.

Her eyelashes flutter over her cheek as she watches him carefully, and despite his best efforts to remain as removed as possible, she's tearing past his walls like she always fucking does.

"I don't want to use you, Clarke." He slides a hand over the tiny curve of her belly. Goosebumps erupt there immediately. "I don't think I could."

She narrows her too-blue eyes at him, frowns. There's the slight glass of tears, but she blinks them away harshly.

"You're not going to do this, are you?"

His hesitation is two seconds too long for her.

"Then get the fuck off me," she knees him sharply in the stomach, narrowly missing his rampant erection. "Get off me!" she calls out louder, more angrily, bringing her fists upward to smash against the junction between his shoulders and arms.

Bellamy jolts back, surprised. "Hey, wait!" He catches her ankle, rubs a soothing thumb over it. "Calm down. You don't get it!"

Clarke scrambles backward toward his headboard, wrenching her foot out of his grip.

"No, I don't think you get it!" she spits. "You always act like such a frat boy. But I ask you to fuck me, and you can't even do it! You're all talk, aren't you? I bet you're not even that good! Lucky Echo got away in time."

Her eyes are wild, and her hair's tumbling around her shoulders from how she breathes too heavily. Anger flashes over Bellamy's cheekbones, crinkles into his eyes and tightens his mouth. He rakes a hand through his hair hard, and huffs.

"You shouldn't have said that, Clarke." His tone drops too many octaves to be normal. "I was going to be nice. I was going to be a friend."

"I don't want your goddamn friendship!" she hurls the words at him like bullets, drawing her knees to her chest and curving her arms around herself to shield her nakedness from his gaze.

"Good, because you're not getting it now," he spits, standing up and taking the few steps to his bedside table.

He feels Clarke's eyes on him while he riffles through one of the small drawers in the dark, half wonders why she doesn't bolt for the door now. But he knows why, deep down. He knows she's too stubborn to run, won't be seen as the weaker party in this very strange string of events. When he straightens up, he's holding a royal purple object in his hand, curved but smooth. His thumb flicks a button at its base, and a buzzing hum fills the thick air between them.

Clarke's eyes go wide.

"What are you--" the words must dry up in her throat as he steps closer to the side of the bed and looms over her, casting a shadow between her and the moonlight that's finally creeping through the window as the storm subsides.

"We're gonna have some fun, Princess." He leans down and presses the circular head of the toy to the inside of her thigh, and she jerks.

His laughter is low and short when he climbs back on the bed close to her. He can tell she's a little scared, but there's also the widening blackness of her pupils.

"You said you wanted to be my slut, so lay down." He pats the blankets beside him.

She swallows audibly, but then she complies.


	8. Stroke My Ego

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Bellarke love canon moment provided by Octavia and all that jazz!

Clarke's not expecting the pressure of the pulsing toy on the soft, downy blonde hair between her legs. Her spine arches off the bed, while a sound like a cooing bird makes escapes from her mouth. Bellamy grins mischievously at her, flattening himself onto his side with one knee wedged between her own. 

 

"Keep those legs open, Princess." He strokes the buttery skin of her upper arm and leans in to kiss her shoulder. "I'm going to take good care of you." 

 

She moans outright when the buzz drifts lower on her skin, her leg twitching. Bellamy lets a breath of air he was holding out and glides a hand over the muscle that just moved in her leg. Her eyes snap up to his. They're wide and glassy and full of emotions she can't name and doesn't think she can focus too clearly on without ruining this moment between them she never thought she'd get. 

 

"Bell-ah-mee," she sings out, tattered and broken as the purple silicon approaches the dip of her hip and slides lower. 

 

She feels nervous about the wetness pooling between her thighs, but then Bellamy's thumb presses the button at the base of the vibrating menace and she forgets to feel anything negative at all. 

 

"Something you wanted to say, Princess?" She hears the gruff chuckle in his voice as he whispers next to her temple, pushing a bit of flyaway hair behind her ear. "Ask for more speed maybe??" 

 

With her last bit of resolve, she reaches out for his bicep and squeezes it, nails slicing into the ripple of flesh.

 

"You. I want you," she gasps, just as the stinging hum finds the sensitive spot below her clit and bears down. 

 

"There's my girl," Bellamy soothes her. His fingertip runs down the line of her jaw and back over the tiny cracked lines in her lips. "You're gonna be so good for me, right?" 

 

He presses the circular head of the vibrator at her entrance, pushing in the slightest fraction, but still she keens, digging her fingers into the side of his ribs and nodding. 

 

"I don't want to be teased," she grits out, swiping the glistening sheen from her cheek with one swift hand. "I want you to fuck me." 

 

Clarke attempts to pivot her hips up toward his groin, but he holds her back down on the bed. It's not strong enough to feel painful pressure, but it's not a hold she can easily break, especially not in this predicament. 

 

"You're really not in a position to decide what happens to you, are you, Clarke?" 

 

He's all predatory charm, and the use of her name hits her right in the stomach. 

 

"Not ... really," she puffs out when the toy glides a few times across the top of her clit before being whisked away to her outer labia. "But I know you'll still listen."  

 

Bellamy groans, and she yanks him down by the back of his neck until the scent of his minty shampoo tickles her nose. She arches up to dot a tiny kiss to his lips, but he doesn't let her pull away. His mouth meets hers, warm, wet and demanding, and before she knows it, he's climbed fully back on top of her. The zinging takes her by surprise when it collides with the responsive side of her breast, dangerously near her nipple. 

 

"So were you going to say something?" 

 

She'd just babbled something nearly incomprehensible and glares at him as fiercely as she can muster. When Bellamy's tongue begins circling her areola, Clarke lets her head flop back on his pillow. She knows she's done for. Twisting one fist into his damp curls, she uses his scalp as leverage to hold him closer and slips her other hand between them to find the velvet hardness of his dick pressing into her stomach. 

 

But she only manages two swift strokes and the pass of her thumb along the head of the thickness she finds before her hand is plucked away and pinned down to the bed by her wrist. His grip is strong and hot, and her blood is thrumming against every place he touches. 

 

"Not yet," he says it like a demand. "You first." 

 

The buzz changes to a sort of pulse and finds a home burrowing into her tight slickness before she can protest. Against her will, her legs curl outward like a blossoming flower, and Bellamy settles more fully between them, propping up part of his weight on his elbow to keep it off of her. 

 

Her eyes slam shut as he carefully works the toy an inch into her hyperactive cunt. As it presses in deeper, there's the scratchy grate of his shaggy hair against her chest and the reassuring clutch of his fingers around her own. 

 

"Breathe. I got you," he urges, and she tries to. 

 

She already feels full and invaded, but then Bellamy's tongue starts sweeping into her mouth at the same pace he's moving the vibrator in and out of her cunt, driving it in deeper each time, and her knees squeeze the sides of his thighs with more ferocity. 

 

It's the clit stimulator that gets her in the end. It buzzes and thrums and passes electric shocks right into her nerve endings until the wave at the base of her spine is building and peaking within her like the foam of a bubble bath spilling over the side of a tub.

 

Bellamy kisses through all her scratching and clawing and moaning and clenching, seemingly unaffected by most of it. His thumb strokes soft circles into her upturned palm at one point, and he urges her to let go with a gentle, "it's ok to surrender, Princess," that would bring tears to her eyes if she wasn't so keyed up. 

 

Her orgasm gives her the deepest kind of spasms that last longer than anything she's ever been able to pull off herself. But it's the prickly abrasion of Bellamy's scruffy beard on her stomach when he begins licking around her belly button that tenses her right back up again. The vibrator lays abandoned now in a swirl of sheets two feet away. 

 

"Please ... want you ... inside me," she mumbles brokenly, working hard despite his weight to tug him back up to her face level. 

 

She hears his small sigh and watches how he meets her eyes though it seems to cost him something to do it. 

 

"Are you still ok?" is all he asks. 

 

She nods hurriedly and skims her nails down his abdomen before reaching again for his cock. Her simple touches have him jerking helplessly into her hand before long, and she smiles hazily at him. 

 

"Not so fast," Bellamy manages, breaking her grip with some regret in his eyes that morphs into something much more playful when he lowers his mouth to her center. 

 

"God ... Bell ... you don't have to ..." she sputters as his tongue flicks around her opening before diving inside. Her hips piston up toward his face, and it brings a rosy bloom to her cheeks and neck. But he holds her down with both hands at the juncture of her waist and lets her tangy flavor erupt in his mouth. 

 

It's his fingers that do it. They're too thick and long and flexible not to elicit an outcry from her when they stroke upward along her walls searching diligently until he finds the hidden button that makes her see sparkling beams of light. 

 

At last, when she's trembling and incoherent, he settles on top of her again. She can feel the moist head of his cock nudging between her folds and wants nothing more than to welcome him inside her body. He's bigger than the vibrator he used on her, bigger than Finn by the looks of it. But he kisses her again with a strange tenderness that makes her dizzy and coasts a possessive hand along her ribcage before squeezing the side of her ass and arching her knee up to wrap better around his waist. 

 

"Shit, condom," he mutters when their eyes meet and he registers the hesitation over the joining of their bodies. 

 

"No!" 

 

Clarke calls it out so abruptly they both pause in surprise. 

 

"Birth control," she whispers, cheeks flaming up again. 

 

Bellamy nods tersely. 

 

"Still, it's safer if I--"

 

He draws back like it costs him something and leans toward his bedside table, but she reaches out in the darkness and clasps her thin fingers around his wrist. 

 

"Are you clean?" the words are barely audible.

 

His laugh is short and low.

 

"Yeah, because of the condoms," he jerks his head in their direction and arches an eyebrow at her. 

 

"Could we ... just this once ... since it's only tonight ..." 

 

He stares at her for a long minute like she's an extra page of equations on a math test he has no more time to work on. 

 

"Probably not the best idea, Clarke." 

 

"But ... I want to feel you. Don't you want to feel me?" 

 

His eyes darken so much there's no brown left, and he's hovering over her again in a second. 

 

"What happened to you, Princess? You can tell me." 

 

"Nothing," she turns away despite his weight, looking toward his wall of posters. 

 

"Tell me who hurt you," he insists more sternly, tapping on her chin. 

 

When she shifts her leg, she feels his stiffness right there so near the spot that's throbbing to be joined with him. 

 

She meets his eyes again, leans up to kiss the corner of his mouth. 

 

"Later," she soothes. "For now, you're the only one who can make it better. Please, Bell. I wanna forget." 

 

The tendons in his neck dance and bulge and a hand tightens at her waist almost painfully. 

 

"That's a shitty reason, Princess." 

 

She shrugs with one shoulder. 

 

"You know I can't lie to you. And I still want you filling me up. Just you. I want you to make me feel it." 

 

She watches his dick twitch a fraction and grins. 

 

"Come on," she thrusts her hips up teasingly into him. 

 

There's only the barest flicker of fear when he catches her wrists up and pins them over her head. 

 

He rubs the head of his dick over her folds, and her knees jump outward a little. 

 

"Don't worry. I'll make you feel it," he promises. 

 


	9. Ready or Not

Clarke breathes heavily, willing herself to relax, but it isn't easy. 

 

"I shouldn't have said that," she whispers, almost frantic, eyes searching for his imploringly. 

 

Bellamy slides his tongue between his teeth. It's strange being so close to his physicality like this. She's never allowed herself to be close enough to smell him, to watch the veins pulse beneath his mocha skin. He's so solid but also graceful as he moves. It's like he's not even real. Her head is spinning with it all - it's too much. 

 

"Which part? You've been talking a lot of shit. And I'm not sure I believe all of it." 

 

He swoops down to dig his teeth into her tender neck. She gasps, wondering not for the first time how she even got herself into this situation. 

 

"T-that ... that y-you weren't good at it." She wants to wrap a hand around the back of his heated neck, brush a thumb across the bottom of his curls. But with her hands pinned over her head, she can't. "You're good at it." 

 

Bellamy's laughter literally presses into her body pinned beneath him. Her hips hitch up at the feeling of his cock slipping against her center. 

 

"Nice of you to say." 

 

He ghosts a hand up her ribcage and flat-out gropes her breast. 

 

"Can you keep your hands up out of the way for me like a good princess, or do I have to hold them down myself?" 

 

There's absolutely no brown left in the eyes that meet hers. Clarke's heart speeds up considerably. Maybe she really didn't know what she was doing when she put on that robe. 

 

"Y-yeah, I can." She barely recognizes her own voice. 

 

"You're a little afraid, aren't you, babe?" 

 

Goosebumps spring up the moment a callus on his pointer finger brushes over the rosy nipple standing straight up, obscenely erect. He lets her hands go, moving his face down, so his mouth can latch around the nipple he just teased. She almost misses the tight surety of him holding her wrists down. Almost. Her eyes snap shut at the sensation of his mouth on her breast, wet and diligent in its mission to drive her insane. It's the small pinch on the fleshy side of her hip that catches her attention though. 

 

"I asked you a question. Aren't you going to answer me?" 

 

His smirk is straight out of a dark fantasy. Not that she has those. Certainly not about him.  

 

"I'm not afraid of you." She keeps her voice steady, smooth. 

 

"You're not?" Bellamy arches a black eyebrow, allows his teeth to nibble at her breast while pushing three of his large fingers into her still fluttering channel. "Then open yourself up to me." 

 

Clarke whimpers at him as he rubs insistently at her g-spot, feeling her walls convulse around him while her stomach coils up tighter and tighter like a spring. "You're going to cum for me just like this, Princess. I want to watch your tits shake when you do." 

 

"Ohhhh," Clarke groans, squishing her knees into his torso as hard as she can because it's the only way she's allowed to touch him. 

 

"There you go, there you go, so dirty laying here in my bed begging me to fuck you." He sings the words to her, unsure what's snapped in his brain that's allowing him to behave like this with her. 

 

"Bell ... Bellamy!" she huffs. "It's too much! I'm going to cum!"

 

"No." 

 

The word is a rough scrape on her skin. 

 

"What?" Her eyes widen in panic. The sensations are coursing through her blood, building up in her muscles, and she's completely unequipped to handle them. 

 

"You're not  _allowed_  to cum yet. You haven't been my good girl, have you?" 

 

He drags his fingers out of her, and she keens, reaching out for his shoulders, but he bats her hands away and pins them back down, laying back over her body. Her blue eyes are clouded in a haze and completely confused. Sweat is pooling at the base of her spine; she feels the slipperiness of it. 

 

"What do you mean--" she gasps, trying and failing to arch her hips into his leg for something to rub against. He holds one of her legs down lightly with his own knee. 

 

"Uh-uh," he whispers. "Are you going to tell me now? Tell me who made you hurt?" 

 

The tears prickle her eye sockets with stunning speed. Finally, he frees her hands, and the blood flow returns to them as she cautiously brings them back to her sides. He doesn't stop her this time. He doesn't stop her from pushing her small palms into his forearms when she bites her lip and looks into his face. 

 

"No." 

 

"Why not?" he grits. 

 

"Because I'm afraid." 

 

"Afraid of what?" He snaps, finally his propensity toward anger getting the better of him. 

 

He doesn't need to know, not today. Maybe not ever. How she said no in the dank basement where they were playing ping pong before she said yes. How she wasn't really sure, and then how it definitely wasn't what she'd wanted after it had begun. How she'll never forget the sound of his breathing or his grunts. The heavy weight of him caging in her shoulders and torso, obstructing her ability to breathe freely. The whole party had been suffocating, the beers too rich, and she didn't know how to make it all go away. She'd gone there for an escape; she went there to find Finn, the joker from earth science class who winked at and teased her. Eventually, she said yes to him. But none of it turned out to be what she wanted, the dream in her mind never living up to the reality. The boy with the charming smile and easy laugh hadn't meant her harm, but he'd just taken what he'd wanted from her all the same, leaving her more hollow than when she'd walked into the party. 

 

Clarke coasts her palm up to his jaw, scrambles up so she can bring her lips to his jawline. "Afraid of what you'll do to them all," she says very quietly into his ear. 

 

He stiffens immediately, drawing back and staring at her with wide eyes. His jaw clenches and unclenches once, then twice. 

 

"Clarke--" he says it like a warning. 

 

"Please. I just want to be yours." Her mouth droops. She's watching Bellamy with some quiet kind of desperation that he's afraid might kill him. It's like she's able to see right through him. A small gust of air conditioning makes the tips of her blonde hair dance around her shoulder as they both rest silently, trapped in the moment. 

 

Then the final traces of logic locked in his brain burst apart like fireworks. 

 

"Come here," he says, gruff and low. His arms reach out to her as he collapses onto his side, tugging her into the length of his body. He kisses the top of her head, strokes up her spine, runs a hand along the curve of her hip before bringing her trembling hand to his erection wedged between them. 

 

"I'm right here," he says softly as she begins to stroke him. He can feel how nervous she is now when his fingers skim across her heartbeat, and he leans forward to claim her mouth softly, running his tongue along hers like an embrace. 

 

"I know. I trust you." Her gorgeous eyes are so purely honest that he has to push her hand away from him because it's all becoming too intense and surreal. 

 

He rolls back over her curving form, and this time after he kisses her, he thrusts carefully between her thighs, taking her at last. It's just a few inches, but her mouth falls open, and her fingers bite into his upper arms. 

 

"Ok?" He huffs above her. He never thought she would feel so glorious, tight and wet and thrumming ... for  _him_. 

 

"Yes, yes, please," she breathes deeply and relaxes her knees, opening more willingly for him. "Keep going." 

 

She was right. It was him she wanted all along. 


	10. The ABCs of Me

Bellamy's not sure what's got him the most turned on. It could be the flush that's spreading across Clarke's skin like a winding vine up  a European manor. It could be the tiny hiss that tumbles out of her perfectly pink lips when he draws out of her or the equally sexy gasp when he pushes back into her inviting heat. Maybe it's the mole above her lip or the fact that he can touch her breasts as much as he wants. It's definitely  _not_ the way her eyes seek his out from where she lays below him, blazing and yet vulnerable at the same time. 

_"_ You feel. So. Fucking. Unbelievable," he says in time to his thrusts, catching her mouth in a sloppy kiss before burying his head in the sweet smell of her neck, so he doesn't have to deal with those questioning eyes. 

Though initially he'd felt the tightness seize through her body, as he laves at the tender skin below her ear with his tongue, it seems dissipate somewhat. She becomes more pliable, softer beneath him. One of her hands moves under his arm to the back of his shoulder, while the other stays wrapped around his side, an anchor as he moves. 

 

"God," he hears her small whisper, her arousal sliding against his cock. His mind might actually explode. 

 

Clarke arches her hips experimentally into his, and it drives him deeper inside her. She clamps down on him, seemingly stunned at the sensation. He catches her mouth part out of the corner of his eye and the miniature droplets of sweat pebbling on her brow. 

 

When he draws back, her fingers dig into the muscle of his bicep, and her heel presses into the back of his thigh, harder than he would have anticipated. 

 

"Not going anywhere," he murmurs, bending to leave wet kisses between her breasts. 

 

"Bell - ahmeee," she breathes. 

 

He glances hesitantly into her face while her fingers tangle into the hair beside his right ear. 

 

"What, Princess?" 

 

He rocks into her slowly, deeper than he's been able to go so far and feels the tentative give he was searching for. 

 

"You're ... bigger than I thought," she huffs. Her thumb brushing along the swell of his bottom lip makes something stir inside him completely removed from the sensation of fucking her. "Bigger than--"

 

"Don't. Say. His. Name," Bellamy grits meanly, thrusting into her with more ferocity to drive the point home. He's almost bottomed out, but then her cry sets a fire through his nervous system. 

 

"Sorry." He braces himself on his forearms, so he hovers a half foot above her. "Did I hurt you?" 

 

"No, just... it was extra pressure." She shakes her head quickly, reaching around his body to squeeze his ass unexpectedly. "I'm sorry, too." She widens her eyes at him knowingly before they narrow into that steely look she gets sometimes when she's about to tell him what an asshole he's being. It's like a challenge. 

 

Not quite believing her, he reaches down between their slick bodies and toys with the fair hair between her thighs for a moment. Holding himself still inside her is nearly impossible, but he manages. Finding his mark, he begins rolling soft circles over her swollen clit. When the strain in her neck disappears, he grins and resumes pushing himself inside her, sucking a bruise to the other side of her neck. 

 

"Feel better?" He huffs smugly, smiling into her skin. 

 

Her answering moan is guttural, so he keeps up the work between her legs, rubbing her clit repeatedly and flicking at the hood that's risen up to expose it. 

 

"There's my good girl. So hot with her legs spread for me," he coos darkly to her. A jolt of pleasure flies through him, and he gets impossibly harder when her walls flutter around him. "I promised I'd make you cum again." 

 

Out of nowhere, he pulls out of her, and she yelps at the sudden change, shooting him a confused, and sort of pissed if he's being honest with himself, look. 

 

He just laughs and settles himself down against the headboard beside her before pinching at her waist. "Come here," he tugs her hand. Her eyes widen as he strokes his cock. The head is purple and mushroom-shaped and eager to be back inside her. 

 

"I ... I uh ... I'm not sure..." Clarke stutters, pushing her hair out of her face as she rises to her knees. 

 

"It'll be fine. Ok?" He watches her expectantly, rubs a soothing hand up the curve of her waist. "Are you brave, Clarke?" 

 

She gives him a half smile and hesitantly hooks one leg over his thighs, settling awkwardly behind his erection on top of his legs. 

 

"Oh, come on. You can do better than that. I don't bite. Well," he tilts his chin. "Not much." 

 

"You're something else," she mumbles, scooting closer. 

 

Bellamy reaches out to run his fingertips back over her clit, and goosebumps pop up along her arms. He smirks. 

 

"Sink down on my cock like a dirty Princess. I want it all the way inside you this time." 

 

She pushes herself up, taking his thick shaft back in her hand and bringing it to her entrance before sliding down carefully. He plays with her tightened nipples, tweaking them between her fingers while rubbing a thumb over her clit as she gets adjusted. He groans when she slides all the way down, accepting more and more of him into herself at her own pace.

 

"Jesus," she gasps. 

 

"Knew you could do it," he offers with a little slap to her ass. There's admiration buried in his tone though. "Now get yourself off on me, baby, go ahead." 

 

Her eyes fly to his at the pet name, but he doesn't react to the surprise coloring her face. Instead, he helps raise her up by the hips before bringing her back down again. Soon, she finds her own rhythm, off at first, then steadily grinding harder against his pubic bone, desperate for friction by the looks of her whipping hair. Bellamy helps her along, leaning forward and capturing first one nipple into his mouth to suck it hard, then the other. She's fluttering and clutching around his cock again in no time. He can't hold back any longer when she finally drives herself over the edge, a little wild moving over his muscular frame with her soft curves and strong thighs.

 

"Bellamy!" she cries out finally, shattering around his cock twitching impatiently inside her.  

 

Clenching his teeth, he flips them back over. He knows she's still spasming from her orgasm, sensitive and over-full. He brushes back her blonde locks from her forehead, eyebrow raising in question.

 

"Keep going. God, keep going." She surges up to kiss him, forcing her tongue into his mouth. 

 

And he's gone. 

 

Rutting against her in an almost animalistic way, lost in the flowery vanilla scent blossoming around him and the exquisite pressure around his cock slipping against her wet walls, so she can feel every vein. When he lets go and cums deep inside her pulsing channel, he doesn't mean to drop down onto her. He tries to get up weakly after a moment, knows she needs air, but she kisses his shaggy temple and wraps her arms back around his shoulders. "Not yet." 

 

"I have to get up," he whispers to her two minutes later. He gives a short laugh at her pout before collapsing back on the pillow beside her, hands cradling the back of his head. 

 

"I hope that helped, Clarke." He squeezes her thigh after several minutes' silence. He has the fucked up urge to reach between her legs to feel his cum slipping out of her but refrains and reaches for a tissue to hand her instead. When he glances over it's to find her staring sightlessly at the whirring fan overhead. 

 

"Yeah," she says quietly. "Yeah." 

 

Well, at least he had given her what she wanted. 

 

~~~**~~~

Clarke wakes with a start two hours later as the sound of the air conditioning clicks on. Her throat is very dry, but she immediately stills her movements when she remembers she's not alone. The fingers of her right hand are somehow tangled with those of Bellamy's left, but she doesn't remember how that happened. Gently, she pries them away, knowing it's over, and rolls out of bed, pulling her robe back on and padding down the dark hall. She stops in the bathroom, smoothing down her sex hair before continuing on to the kitchen. She should probably go back to Octavia's room to spend the rest of the night. It makes the most sense.  

 

She's bent over, staring into the bright refrigerator examining her options when something casts a shadow over the orange juice. Jumping back, she collides with the solid wall of Bellamy's chest. 

 

"Work up an appetite, Princess?" Bellamy mocks her easily, teasingly, but she still feels the hair on the back of her neck stand up at his timbre. 

 

"Thirsty, actually," she snips, reaching for the Brita container on the upper shelf. 

 

"I already knew that," he returns, darkness edging back into his voice, and her cunt clenches against her will. 

 

"Listen, Bell, we don't have to talk about it any more--"

 

She tries to spin around to face him, but he stops her with a hand on her silky hip. Pushing back her blonde waves, he latches his mouth back to her neck. Clarke sets the heavy container on the counter before she drops it, relishing in the cold air from the fridge washing over her skin. 

 

"You can tell yourself that." 

 

Her blood turns frosty in her veins at the words. Bellamy steps away from her, closing the fridge and opening a cabinet to hand her a glass for the water. He watches her drink from it in the low light, eyes flicking between her lips and the deep V of her robe. She has no idea what to say and preoccupies herself with the water for as long as possible, rolling the glass in her hands and watching the droplets at the bottom spiral in circles. Finally, she opens the dishwasher and places it inside, turning to face him. 

 

Bellamy's already standing in front of her, reaching around to draw her in by the waist. Her heart hammers in her chest. His face is so unreadable. 

 

"I wasn't done with you yet." His grin is half-predatory, half-infectious. Maybe it's dizziness she feels. 

 

He cocks at eyebrow at her. 

 

She nods simply, eyes never leaving his. "Ok."

 

Bellamy leans in to run his lips over hers like a breeze, and her hands find the back of his neck instinctively. She's close enough to him to realize he's already half-hard through his boxers, and the thought sends a bolt of arousal through her gut despite her best intentions. His kiss turns more possessive, and when she feels the slide of his fingertips to the underside of breast, she presses down into them until he cups her and sucks the moan out of her mouth. A minute later, his hand slips under her robe, and her breath hitches when he probes between her legs, testing her wetness. She knows she's slick, can feel the arousal seeping onto the tops of her inner thighs but can't help what he does to her. Clarke runs her palms over his exposed chest in turn, leaning up on her toes to kiss a cluster of freckles near his collar bone. 

 

Bellamy taps the side of her thigh, smearing a little of the wetness there in the process. 

 

"Up," he orders. 

 

When she leaps lightly, he catches her under her thighs, shifting his grip to right below her ass as she winds her legs back around him. His arms are her new favorite place to be. Still, she tempers the hope bubbling up in her chest. 

 

"Your hair glows in the moonlight," Bellamy tells her, and she blinks, taken aback by the strange poetry of it. "Like Selene." 

 

"Uh... what?" Clarke asks as he deposits her at the edge of the wood kitchen table. 

 

"Greek goddess of the moon," he shrugs, pulling her to the very edge of the table and wrapping her calves around him while she tugs at his boxers. "There are only a few written records that survived about her, but they all mentioned her hair was bright and-"

 

"Bellamy?" 

 

"Yeah?" 

 

"Can you fuck me again now please?" 

 

His eyes flash darkly. 

 

"Since you asked so nicely," he allows the head of his dick to bump against her folds, then finds her opening and drives home in a single, concentrated thrust. Clarke's bite closes over the bone of his shoulder. 

 

~~~**~~~

 

When sunlight flickers in front of her eyelids, Clarke curls her lip and tries to turn over. But she can't. There's an impossibly heavy weight draped over her, pinning her down like a starfish. Her first reaction is to grin at the mop of Bellamy's dark curls scratching the skin over her breasts, which he apparently chose as his pillow. But she immediately swallows it.  

 

"Bell!" She pokes him in his side, and he grunts. "You've got to get up!" she tries again, fingertips racing up and down his ribs in a tickling motion. "Please," she finishes more quietly. 

 

Her hips are wedged flush with his, and she can feel the outline of his hardening dick against her flesh with each minute movement. She absolutely can't do this a third time, or it will be impossible to leave. 

 

"Come on, get up!" she shakes his shoulder forcefully. 

 

That gets Bellamy to crack a bleary eye open. It still takes him a minute to realize that he's on top of her. 

 

"Shit, Clarke. Sorry." 

 

He arches up on his knees and he stretches, all rippling golden muscle that she's no longer allowed to touch. She looks away toward the door. 

 

"Well," she says awkwardly. "I'm gonna take a shower and get out of your way." 

 

She tucks the dark sheets around her chest and climbs out of his thoroughly used bed. 

 

"Clarke--" His voice is a little raspy as he pulls on a fresh pair of boxers from his drawer. 

 

"Don't worry about it." She grabs the robe off the floor. "No need to mention it again."

 

"Clarke." Bellamy's tone is more insistent this time, and she finds his gaze reluctantly. 

 

"Let me make you breakfast?" 

 

"Really?" 

 

"Sure." He half-shrugs. "Why the hell not?' 

 

~~~**~~~

The smell of waffles lures Clarke toward the kitchen with her overnight bag hanging from the crook of her arm. Bellamy's got what sounds like the History Channel droning on in the background.  _Nerd,_  she thinks fondly. Her stomach flips. She pushes the thought down. 

 

It's the rapid knocking on the door that makes her flatten her back to the wall in fear.  _Octavia. It has to be._ How the hell is she going to explain this? She's going to have to crawl back out the same damn window she crawled in through. Already inching back toward the bedrooms, she freezes again when Bellamy's voice sounds from around the corner. 

 

"Murphy?" He questions. "What are you doing here?" 

 

"You've got to be joking," comes the steadily sarcastic drawl of one of Bellamy's friends. "Miller's dad got us free tickets to Busch Gardens, remember? Today's the day, man! Get your shit ready. Miller just texted and said he'll be here in 20 minutes." 

 

"Oh ... right ... yeah," Bellamy stutters. 

 

"Fancy breakfast," she hears Murphy comment as his footsteps hit the linoleum of the kitchen. "Can I have a waffle? Oooh, blueberries  _and_ whipped cream! Very professional, Blake." 

 

Clarke imagines the yellow batter bubbling up in the waffle maker, and her stomach squeezes with an emotion she can't name. She's about to turn and wait for Bellamy back in his room, knowing he'll make some excuse to leave Murphy when --

 

"You hear that crazy shit about Octavia's friend? Griffin, is it?" 

 

She can't breathe. She's paralyzed, the bag suddenly much too heavy for her to keep holding. 

 

"What are you talking about?" Bellamy says casually enough. 

 

"It's been all over the news, man. Her mom's campaign was taking all this money from the company killing babies or something. By spraying chemicals on crops. Another insane rich bitch trying to take over the world, am I right?" His last few words are muffled by chewing. 

 

There's the sound of heavy footsteps and then the abrupt noise of flashes of conversation as TV channels change. 

 

"Yeah ... Griffin's dad and that dip shit running for mayor, Jaha, right? They turned in the mom when they found out. It's a scandal," Murphy continues. "She's like a drug addict and that's why they're saying she agreed to take the money - like she lost her mind." 

 

Clarke swallows hard as the pain slams back into her chest. 

 

"What happened to her? To Clarke's mom?" Bellamy asks, voice full of choked hardness. 

 

"Uhh ... I think rehab? Not sure. Try CNN, Fox, CNBC, it really doesn't matter. They're all talking about it." 

 

Clarke forces herself up off the wall as the tears begin blinding her vision. She's wedged Octavia's window back open without really even seeing it, is swinging her bag through the gap when she moves too fast, and it smashes into a lamp.

 

"Shit!" She mumbles, but there's no time. 

 

The bag hits the pine needles below, and she vaults through the window after it, twisting her ankle slightly when she lands. Gritting her teeth through the pain, she rushes toward the edge of the Blake property. She's got to get home. Away. Anywhere but here. 

 

"Clarke!" She hears him yelling from the open window. 

 

She doesn't look back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I come to you in this difficult time with story suggestions! 
> 
> I'm Swept Away and My Heart Ensnared (summer beach bellarke!)  
> Flowers fade, but the internet lasts forever (TWITTER LOVE)  
> I just need some company (the proposition modern au you've been waiting for)  
> take this sinking boat and point it home (it's platonic. no, really).  
> a helping hand (bellamy needs a practice girlfriend. guess who volunteers)  
> into tinder, and so hinder (clarke's dating. bellamy's jealous.)  
> mirror mirror on the wall (awwww soul mates)  
> when the music fades (in s5 canon but bellarke doesn't hate each other! dancing! cute madi!)  
> wrong number (fun texting featuring overprotective raven)  
> tell me how to feel okay (if this isn't the bellarke apology you're looking for post 509, i don't know what to tell you)  
> begging me to beg for you (s1 bunker bellarke instead of flarke)  
> explain the infinite (the s1 bellarke soul mates au that made me die a little)  
> Sweet Lips on My Lips (if canon was easier - how they'd get together)  
> Love Doesn't Discriminate (It Takes and Takes and Takes) THE SOULMATE AU YOU NEVER KNEW YOU NEEDED SO BADLY. RUN DON'T WALK.  
> To the Victor Belongs the Spoils (Bellarke obsessed with Mario Kart. And each other.)


	11. Like A Roller Coaster

Bellamy grimaces, the sun hot on his neck as a group of rowdy kids runs by, almost knocking into him in their haste to make it to the cotton candy stand. It's almost 5 p.m, and his limbs ache. Trilling pop music plays from speakers hidden in the natural area displays. He can feel the sweat pooling at the base of his spine. It feels like he has ridden every mega coaster in Busch Gardens with Miller and Murphy. 

 

"Come on! One more," Murphy whines like a kid, pointing up at the curling, blue metal machine. It's the one that's supposed to have an amazing view of the James River and leaves you suspended in air, feet dangling, before hurtling you straight down at breakneck speeds at the start of the ride. The lines for it have been outrageous all day. 

 

"The lines are better now. It won't take that long!" Murphy insists. 

 

Miller sighs and raises an eyebrow at Bellamy.

 

"What do you say, man? Last one before we go find the nearest bar?" 

 

Bellamy purses his lips and shrugs. 

 

"Yes!" Murphy pumps his fist in the air. 

 

As they get closer, he notices the name of the coaster, The Griffon, and his stomach gives an unpleasant swoop. Discreetly, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and checks his notifications. There's nothing from her, despite the three messages he sent.  

 

They walk toward the ride, Murphy catching Bellamy pocket his phone with a smirk.

 

"Is someone sad the Princess ran away?" Murphy singsongs to him, elbowing Miller in the ribs. 

 

It is a mark of the strong bond between he and Miller that the dark-skinned man stays remarkably straight-faced. 

 

"Shut up, Murphy," Bellamy growls, stalking out in front of them both. 

 

He did his best to do damage control back at the house that morning. But honestly, Murphy had heard the lamp crash and come running, saw Clarke's golden hair racing away as her bag knocked into her side awkwardly. He wasn't a moron; he'd put two and two together. When he asked Bellamy what the hell the Princess was doing there overnight with wiggling eyebrows and feral eyes, Bellamy shoved past him, muttering about how she needed a place to crash with everything going on. Not like Murphy bought that. 

 

The waffles burned, smoke setting off the fire alarm as Bellamy ran around trying to clear the kitchen of smoke by opening windows. He gave Murphy one word answers to his incessant questions before finally telling him to shut the fuck up if he planned on leaving the house in one piece. As he flipped eggs in a pan several minutes later, the nagging nausea persisted in his gut, but it wasn't for the reasons Murphy thought. It had nothing to do his friend suspecting something had happened between him and Clarke. It was Murphy knowing more about Clarke's personal life that he did that pissed him off. He cut the vegetables for an omelet violently after that, shards of onion flying about the counter, and repressed the thought entirely. 

 

**Bellamy:**  Are you ok? You didn't have to run like that. 

 

**Bellamy:**  Clarke. Did you make it home? 

 

**Bellamy:**  Answer me please. I don't care about what's on the news. Just tell me you're ok. 

 

Silence. 

 

The line for the ride is too long, the view from the top like a postcard with the sun glinting on the water and the forestland of Williamsburg spread out in every direction. Bellamy doesn't see it. He begs off the bar crawl, saying he's got a migraine and has Miller drop him off at his house instead. That's when he realizes he still hasn't even stripped the sheets off his bed. As the laundry machine rumbles, he tries to clear the scent of wildflowers and honey from his brain. He's utterly fucked. 

 

~~***~~

 

The chime of the doorbell is followed by a heavy pounding noise that jars Jake Griffin from deep thoughts of his stock investments. He's going to have to rearrange some things now that Abby will be in treatment for the foreseeable future and no longer contributing her paycheck to the family expenses. He sighs heavily, pushing his reading glasses from his nose and rubbing the tight skin between his eyes. 

 

He spares one glance up the staircase where Clarke fled earlier this morning, white as a sheet before slamming her door hard enough to make the walls rattle. He'd tried to reason with her through the door, plead with her to come out and eat, to talk to him, but she hadn't said so much as one word in reply. He hadn't even known where the hell she was last night, and the thought of his own pain distracting him from his daughter's safety made him sick. 

 

It's a surprise to find Bellamy Blake on his brick doorstep, hands pressed deep into his shorts pockets, face flecked with light sunburn. 

 

"Uh... Bellamy. Hi. How're you doing, son?" 

 

"Mr. Griffin," the kid looks nervous. Jake wracks his brain trying to remember the last time he'd seen him. It had to have been a few months ago. He'd convinced Bellamy to come out to a dinner with them when they'd already invited Octavia. At first, he'd tried to politely refuse, but Jake was persuasive. He knew the kid struggled trying to do everything to support his sister, and Octavia was a great friend to Clarke. He didn't mind providing him a meal or basketball tickets once in a while. "I'm so sorry to hear about Mrs. Griffin. I- Well, I-." Bellamy yanks the sunglasses off the top of his head and begins playing with them, twisting them in his fingers. 

 

"Oh, thank you," Jake's shoulders fall forward in defeat. "Heard it on the news, right?" 

 

"Ummm," Bellamy wipes a hand across his face. The kid is starting to make him nervous by default. "Is Clarke here, sir? I wanted to ummm ... say hi," he finishes lamely. 

 

Jake narrows his sharp blue eyes at him. 

 

"Where's your sister? Shouldn't she be the one coming over here?" 

 

"Octavia's with her dad this weekend. I ... don't think she knows to be honest with you." 

 

Jake's mouth narrows into a grim line. He twists his neck and shoulders, stiff from sitting cramped over a computer for the last few hours. 

 

"I figured she wouldn't broadcast it," he mutters. He sizes Bellamy up for one more moment before holding the door open wider to him, titling his head in the direction of the foyer. "Let me go check on her, ok? I'll see if she wants any company." 

 

Bellamy nods. "Thank you." 

 

Jake's halfway up the stairs when he turns back below him in time to watch Bellamy staring down at a childhood photo of Clarke riding a horse perched on an end table. 

 

"Bellamy!"

 

His dark, curly head whips up. 

 

"Yes, sir?" 

 

"Do you know where she was last night?" Jake's tone darkens, and his gaze is laser focused. 

 

Something akin to panic flashes across the young man's face before he adopts a neutral expression once more. 

 

"Yes, sir." 

 

Jake clicks his tongue, tightening his grasp on the shiny mahogany banister. 

 

"Care to share with the class?" 

 

Bellamy swallows noticeably. 

 

"She, ummm, she sort of ran away to our place. I guess she needed to clear her head." 

 

"But you said Octavia wasn't home." 

 

"Right." 

 

"So you let her stay with you?" 

 

"We're friends. Why wouldn't I?" Bellamy returns, and there's a tinge of hardness in his tone. 

 

Jake stares at him for a long moment before making a small grunting sound and continuing up the stairs. 

 

~~~**~~~

 

"Clarke, honey? Are you awake?" He knocks on her door. "There's somebody here to see you." 

 

"Who?" The one word slices through the wood like a tropical wind blast. 

 

"Bellamy Blake." 

 

He raises his eyebrows and takes a step back when he hears the sure sound of her feet making their way to the door. When she throws it open, she looks like a wreck. Her eyes are red and swollen around the edges, while her blonde hair is piled on top of her head in a bird's nest of a bun. She's got on sleep shorts and an old, faded black T-shirt. 

 

"I don't want to see him." She gazes directly into her father's eyes and says the words slowly and clearly before moving to close the door. 

 

Jake stops the motion with his foot, wincing as she bangs it against his toes. 

 

"Clarke ... what's going on? Why the hell would you spend the night at the Blakes' if Octavia wasn't there?" 

 

"I didn't know she wouldn't be there." 

 

"But you stayed when you found out she wasn't?" Jake's voice is rising, and he tempers himself, not wanting their conversation to travel downstairs. 

 

"It was better than coming back here," she spits. 

 

"Enough," Jake says firmly, pushing the door further open and stepping into her room. It's practically ransacked, clothes and beauty supplies thrown all over while her school books and papers drape across her desk and onto the floor. Her bed's unmade, and the curtain's are drawn to block out the sun. "Do you think I wanted to have to do that to your mother, Clarke?" 

 

She shifts uncomfortably on her feet and won't make eye contact. 

 

"Do you?" he repeats more urgently. 

 

She sighs. 

 

"I don't know what you're capable of anymore." 

 

"Listen to me. If there was any other way, I would have picked it. But she wouldn't listen to reason. This had been going on for years, Clarke! How could I knowingly let her keep a woman in business whose company is responsible for killing kids? You tell me!"

 

Clarke's hands fly to her hips and her nostrils flare out dangerously. 

 

"You could have told me what was going on!" she whisper shouts. "I didn't have to hear it from Wells, dad! We could have figured something else out! But you didn't even think of that, did you?" She actually is yelling now. 

 

"No, honey," Jake just looks tired now as he rubs his hand across his face. The gesture is too familiar now that she realizes Bellamy does it all the time. "It was the only choice." 

 

"That's bullshit, and you know it," she says nastily, turning on her heel and dropping back onto her bed. "I don't want to see him. Tell him to go." 

 

Jake lets his chin drop to his chest in frustration. When he speaks again, it's very quiet. 

 

"If he was important enough for you to run to yesterday, and you're important enough for him to chase down today, maybe you should see him." 

 

Clarke blinks rapidly at him. 

 

"You don't know what you're talking about," she spits. A few splotches of color are sinking into the skin around her collarbone and cheeks though. 

 

Jake's sigh is so deep it could knock down a tree. 

 

"Contrary to what you may think, Clarke. I have eyes. If he's someone you care about right now, go talk to him. It's better than sitting in the dark here all day and feeling miserable if you won't talk to me." 

 

Clarke shifts uncomfortably on her bed, scratching at her leg. He can feel the wheels spinning in her brain as the blush deepens. 

 

"Or don't," Jake throws up his hands in defeat. "You're going to be 18 soon. You can make your own decisions." 

 

He's closing the door behind him when he hears her voice. 

 

"Dad?" she says quietly. 

 

"Yeah, honey?" 

 

"Tell him to give me a few minutes. I want to clean myself up." 

 

"Sure." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just keeping a running list of recommendations here and adding to what I already had: 
> 
> I'm Swept Away and My Heart Ensnared (summer beach bellarke!)  
> Flowers fade, but the internet lasts forever (TWITTER LOVE)  
> I just need some company (the proposition modern au you've been waiting for)  
> take this sinking boat and point it home (it's platonic. no, really).  
> a helping hand (bellamy needs a practice girlfriend. guess who volunteers)  
> into tinder, and so hinder (clarke's dating. bellamy's jealous.)  
> mirror mirror on the wall (awwww soul mates)  
> when the music fades (in s5 canon but bellarke doesn't hate each other! dancing! cute madi!)  
> wrong number (fun texting featuring overprotective raven)  
> tell me how to feel okay (if this isn't the bellarke apology you're looking for post 509, i don't know what to tell you)  
> begging me to beg for you (s1 bunker bellarke instead of flarke)  
> explain the infinite (the s1 bellarke soul mates au that made me die a little)  
> Sweet Lips on My Lips (if canon was easier - how they'd get together)  
> Love Doesn't Discriminate (It Takes and Takes and Takes) THE SOULMATE AU YOU NEVER KNEW YOU NEEDED. RUN DON'T WALK.  
> To the Victor Belongs the Spoils (Bellarke obsessed with Mario Kart. And each other.)  
> After All - all that modern "we met in a bar fwb until it wasn't" angst you deserve  
> Mismatched - Do you like Are You the One? Then you'll love this!  
> Lights Down Low - unity day bellarke  
> and our souls, they blend - when you just wanted rover sex  
> wherever you're going, i'm not far behind (Modern AU. FWB until Finn comes along. You'll love it.)


	12. Riding in Cars with Boys

All of Clarke's senses are on hyper alert as she pads down the steps to where Bellamy stands waiting for her, hand on his hips. Her heartbeat hums in her neck, and her eyes flick over his face searching for a sign of his mood.

"What are you doing here?" It's the first thing out of her mouth before she can stop herself. She didn't mean for it to sound so accusatory though.

"Hello to you too, Princess."

She lets out an unsteady breath and crossing her arms over her chest, taps her toes against the floor. Bellamy catches the wince that crosses her face at the motion, and his gaze lands on the light brown brace stretched around her ankle.

"You hurt yourself." He says it almost like an accusation, eyes darkening.

"It's no big deal," she shrugs. "It's not broken or anything. Just a light sprain."

Bellamy swallows but remains quiet. The silence grows suffocating, broken only by the ticking of an ornate grandfather clock in the corner that's been in the Griffin family for generations. Finally, Clarke steps forward.

"Bellamy," she says more gently, "Why are you here?"

The silence returns again, and just when Clarke's about to burst with the tension, he blurts out -

"Can we go someplace?"

She blinks her surprise, glances down at her foot in doubt.

"Uh . . . sure, ok."

"Shit, sorry. I'll drive us. You don't have to walk."

Desperate to be out of the house, Clarke nods and walks over to her father's study. He hears her call around the door that she's leaving with him. Jake says something back unclearly, but he catches the "you'd better come home this time." His stomach swoops at the memory of her in his bed instead of her own last night, biting her lip underneath him, sliding her hands along his abdomen. Turning swiftly toward the door, he yanks it open to break the spell and steps out into the sunlight, waiting for her on the sidewalk.

His tires drift aimlessly up the suburban street for a few minutes, the considerable space between them stretching out like a canyon between desert hills. They're many blocks into the trip before Clarke leans forward suddenly, reaching out to point her arm off to the left and brushing against his in the process. It sends a warm jolt from his wrist to his elbow.

"Let's go that way. Toward the park," is all she says.

He nods simply and turns on his blinker, eyes dipping down to the way her black jean shorts cling to her thigh. He wants to put his hand there but chews on his cheek instead to fight the urge. There are weeds growing up between the cracks in the sidewalk as they enter the middle class neighborhood. He starts counting mailboxes in an attempt to tame his thoughts, which are spiraling out in every direction.

When they arrive at Polaris Park, he moves around to the passenger side door swiftly and holds it open for her, offering his hand. She holds onto it for the briefest of moments to help pull herself up.

The sun is making its slow descent toward the tree line, and the sound of croaking insects drones in the background as they walk very slowly through the wrought iron gates.

"Bellamy?" He actually does jump when her fingertips skim along his skin as they settle at a blue picnic table at the outskirts of the carefully manicured park. A gnarled elm tree provides some shade at least from the last of the sun's hot orange rays. Her face is confused when he meets her gaze. "Why did you come to my house?"

"Because you fucking ran away, Clarke. I figured that was obvious."

Her eyebrows fly up at the unexpected aggression in his tone, but then her shoulders square. She's sitting right across from him, and it feels too confrontational. Her heartbeat quickens, and a nervous sheen of sweat coats her palms.

"You didn't really want Murphy to know I was there, did you?" Her expression is dangerous, voice rising. "I thought I was doing you a favor ... giving you less to explain."

His mouth twists into a sour line.

"That's bullshit. You smashed up O's lamp. Murphy definitely knows you spent the night. How could I even hide it from him?"

"And that's killing you, isn't it?" She leans closer, looking like she would stick him in the chest with her finger if she could. "So you're here to tell me to keep my mouth shut like you probably threatened him to do."

"Wait, what?" Bellamy shakes his head like a dog ridding itself of mosquitoes. "That's what you think?"

"Of course it's what I think!" She's shrill enough to hurt her own ears, but Bellamy is undeterred when her palms slam down on the table. A mother throwing a frisbee with her son nearby looks over at them in concern though. "You found out my mom's an addict who's so greedy for power she let her goddamn campaign get financed with money that came from killing kids! Who the hell would want to be connected to that?"

There's pain in his face by the end of her little tirade. Her chest heaves, and she feels the tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. She doesn't want him to see her like this, on the edge of losing control, desperate, helpless. But there's nothing she can do about it now. She already propositioned him like a crazy person in his own home. Somehow, under the cover of dark skies and lightning streaks, it had seemed like a good idea. Now it just hurts because she knows what his hands on her body feel like. She squeezes her eyes shut at the memory of him whispering beautiful in her ear.

"I do."

The words reorient her attention back toward the freckles dusting over the bridge of Bellamy's nose.

"Huh?"

"I said I do."

He's very clear and calm, deadly so. Clarke's breath hitches for a nanosecond before he's come around to her side of the table. His hand jumps for her waist, latching onto her so tightly it almost hurts. He leans over into her space, and her back bows under him, right hand scrambling wildly to offer her body some stability as she descends. Then Bellamy's pressing his mouth against hers, hard. The surprise sticks for two seconds, but then her shoulder muscles relax from their tight coil, and she parts her lips at his insistence. He's warm and thrumming pressed against her at this ridiculous angle. She can feel his heartbeat and swipes her fingertips through the wet curls at the base of his neck. Bellamy leaves one hand braced at the end of her spine and curls the other around the side of her face. It's confusing and too much and not enough, but it tastes right.

"Hold on, hold on," Clarke pants, tearing away from him finally and pushing at his chest, so he won't dive for her mouth again. He stumbles upright. "What's going on?"

Her eyes are shrewd and cutting. In the distance, she hears frisbee mom emit a "Well! Really!" before grabbing her son by the elbow and pulling him toward the swing set.

Bellamy shrugs, digging his hands deep into his pockets. He smirks a little, baring teeth. "I want you."

Clarke snorts and swipes a hand across her forehead.

"You made that clear last night. But come on, Bell. That wasn't for real."

Something ugly streaks over his cheekbones, but he schools it fast.

"Who said it wasn't real?"

She wonders if he can hear her shaky breathing. But if she doesn't get this out, she'll regret it. She has to tell him the truth.

"I thought we both did," she says, more softly this time. "I'm your little sister's best friend, the wreck. You don't want me, Bellamy. Not really. You never thought about me that way. You don't even like me much."

"Stop lying, Princess," his voice drops down an octave. "You said I was the one for you yesterday," he cocks up an eyebrow. "Or are you taking it back now?"

He hears the slight sigh she emits when she drops her neck to stare at her feet encased in bright white tennis shoes for the support.

"I thought you were too distracted by my boobs to listen."

Bellamy grins like the sun, but she doesn't see it.

"They're very distracting," he admits. "But I promise I heard you."

"Fine, so what!" she demands defiantly, blue eyes blazing when they lock on his much darker ones. He loves when she gets haughty like this. She's been doing it their whole lives. "It doesn't matter because ..."

"Because?"

"Because now I'm the cheap slut who slept with you. I screwed it all up."

She's an inferno of heat and crackling electricity, about to jolt off the table. He can sense the tiger ready to run.

"Clarke."

She gasps when he falls down onto his knees in front of her, capturing her face between his hands but cradling it gently. She wants to cry again.

"Don't you ever say that again. Do you understand me?"

"Mmm," the whimper comes from the back of her throat.

"Clarke, I'm serious. I ... fuck." He looks away. It's her fingers tentatively stroking a pattern on his forearm that brings him back to her. "I care about you too, all right? I like you."

"What?" she doesn't bother to conceal the surprise. "You do?"

"A lot," he says gruffly, eyes boring into hers. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"And you don't care about my mom's--"

"No," he says firmly. "I really don't."

Clarke smiles widely for the first time all day, lost in the unexpected but pure joy of the moment.

"Ok," she nods, then grips the collar of his shirt and tugs him upward to kiss his smile.

This time it's gentler, softer, and she feels the butterflies swarm in her chest when his thumb soothes her side in careful strokes.

"So you're gonna be with me then?" he asks when they pull apart.

She could get used to the swollen lips and starry eyes.

"Yeah," her arms reach out to lace around his neck, and she buries her face against his chest. "Yeah."

Bellamy takes her for ice cream - two scoops of pistachio, her favorite. He sits with her on the same side of the sticky red booth, their legs propped up on the cushion across from them. She leans her head on his shoulder and talks quietly about her mom, about Wells, her father, the failed campaign, the secrets, the blood money, the drugs. He keeps an arm around her waist as her voice washes over him, and when she's done, he kisses the crown of her head, unsure what to say to make it better.

"I'm so sorry, Princess," is what he settles on.

"I know you are."

After a minute passes, he draws his arm away, inadvertently skimming the side of her bra cup in the process. Her eyes glint up at him.

"Time to head home," he says quietly.

"I wanna stay with you." She presses her palm hard into his upper thigh, widening her eyes. "Please."

"We can't. Your dad."

"I don't care."

"I care. I like your dad."

Clarke slumps against the wall in defeat when she sees him clench his jaw. He's made up his mind. She catches his fingers in hers.

"Can we at least talk tonight? FaceTime or something?"

His heart skips a beat behind his ribs, and he feels his bottom lip jutting out a fraction. This Clarke Griffin - the vulnerable one - is just not one he's that used to.

The air shoots out of his nose when he sighs heavily.

"Come on," he says with a jerk of his head. "I have an idea."

The sun is setting in streaks of golden purple when they reach the scenic overpass. It lies high above the city towers of Arkadia, which darken as night falls, warm blooms of light unfurling from the tiny square windows. Bellamy drives his truck right to the wooded edge, as close to the thick group trees as he can get. It's deserted for now.

He'd spent the car ride over stroking up her thigh like he'd wanted to before, and it made her cunt clench with anticipation. Each sweep of his rough fingers over her silky skin awakened something inside her. At one point, she'd even embarrassed herself, rocking her hips out toward his hand when it curved in too low between her legs. Bellamy had laughed softly and pulled his hand away entirely, running his thumb along her lip as she began to sulk.

The cicadas are singing as Bellamy opens his door and slips down to the ground below, walking behind the truck to unlock the flatbed. Her eyebrows rise once more in surprise when he opens the door for her too and holds out his arms.

"Come here, baby."

It's a little awkward, but he doesn't want her to walk or have to launch herself up onto the back of his truck and injure herself more. So she slides her thighs around his waist and lets him hoist her into the air and then onto the painted metal edge of the truck, legs dangling below her. Bellamy steps between them eagerly, kissing her messily before sucking along her jawbone down to her neck. The warm air tickles her skin when Bellamy removes her thin T-shirt and drops it behind her, hands moving directly to her breasts to test their feel in his palms.

She squirms and giggles against his jaw, pulling him closer with her knees. They're mostly hidden in this tiny thicket of woods, but someone could still pull up and see them. It makes her anxiously excited. Her body jitters with the idea.

"Do you like this? Being outside? Knowing someone could see?" he gruffs against her ear before biting down on the lobe. He always could read her mind.

"Maybe," she teases as she crawls backward, making room for him to climb up and on top of her.

"Hmmm," he hums, unbuttoning her shorts and sliding his hand right into her lace panties.

Clarke gasps as one of his fingers presses down on her clit before slipping through her arousal to her entrance. He presses inside a fraction, testing her. "You're all wet for me, Princess, aren't you?"

He pinches the inside of her thigh when she stays silent, panting underneath him, pupils totally blown wide.

"Yes, yes," she babbles, trying to arch her breast toward the hand he removes from her thigh and slides up her ribcage. "Please, Bell."

"Please what?"

She blush makes something primitive flare to life in his gut.

"Tell me what you want."

When her eyes haze over, Bellamy drops down on an elbow and strokes her cheek lightly with the side of his thumb, pushing blonde streaks from her face.

"It's ok. You can tell me."

He can smell her sweat and the vanilla perfume when he bites on her shoulder, bringing his finger to her mouth, so she can taste herself. She sucks it straight in, licking up the side.

"Tell me," he presses more demandingly, a whole hand over one breast now where he slides back and forth more roughly over her nipple through the sheer fabric.

"I liked it yesterday."

"What part did you like?" He sucks forcefully on the top of her breast, bringing her hands to his hair to clutch as her knees tighten around him, drawing him flush against her body.

"I liked how you took me. It was ... hot."

His chin rests heavy on her sternum, but she doesn't care.

"Really?"

Her canine cuts into the soft pink of lip flesh.

"Yeah," she breathes.

His dick is hardening so fast, his pants are becoming a serious problem. Clarke takes mercy on him and starts unbuttoning them, stroking him through the fabric all the while.

"Anything else?"

His heart might give out when she slips her tongue into his mouth and toys with it before drawing back and giving him a good squeeze.

"You can be a little more rough."

Time stops right there.


	13. What Does Together Mean to You?

 

"Is that right?" Bellamy smiles at her darkly. 

 

"Yeah," she arches back an eyebrow at him. 

 

"I'll keep that in mind, baby." Bellamy's fingers start sauntering up her thigh lazily, coating the tan skin with a light trail of her arousal and saliva. It makes her grit her teeth and yank the front of his shirt in her fist, drawing him closer for another kiss. "Your ankle," Bellamy manages when she releases him. "I don't want to hurt you." 

 

Clarke's fingertips linger on his chin for a moment. "You won't," she sings out. "You'll think of something." 

 

He bears his teeth to her in a smirk before sinking them into the juncture of her neck and shoulder. She gasps. 

 

"Yeah," he agrees, pushing his thigh between her spread legs until he finds the spot that makes her hiss. "I'll think of something." 

 

She's rutting shamelessly against him, chasing sparks in her stomach, when he halts her with a warm palm flat on her belly button. "Not too much. I want to be inside you when you come." 

 

Her hips still jerk involuntarily forward. He draws back, running his thumb over her bottom lip before moving to the side of the flatbed to push his own boxers and jeans down to his ankles. Clarke shimmies out of her shorts and panties with a little effort, biting the side of her cheek as Bellamy begins stroking himself while watching her. He's long and thick, and there's nothing stopping the wetness seeping over her inner thighs. 

 

"Lay down on your side," Bellamy taps the place beside him. 

 

Clarke spares one glance for the purple-blue rapidly approaching twilight, catching a few stars already out far overhead. When she moves her hands behind her to unsnap her bra, Bellamy reaches for her upper arm, stilling her. 

 

He shakes his head. 

 

"You don't need to be that exposed." 

 

It makes her chest clench in an unexpected way, and when she lands beside him, she rubs her ass directly into his stiffening cock, moaning at the sensation. 

 

"Can't wait for it, can you, Princess?" 

 

"Mmm-Mmm," she mumbles back. Bellamy's hand runs over the length of her side as if counting her ribs before cupping her between her legs and circling the area around her clit until she whines and pulls at his arm. 

 

He gently lifts her injured leg over his own where he lies flush behind her, so it's out of the way. Then he locks their fingers together and braces them on her hip, nudging his cock along her slickness. 

 

"Be good for me, and keep your hand here, hmmm?" 

 

"Ok." 

 

He hears her breathe out heavily through her nose. The air's muggy around them and scented with eucalyptus. It clings around their bodies, a sort of blanket. 

 

"Here we go, just the tip," Bellamy murmurs into her hair, gazing down at his length slipping inside her pink folds. They resist at first, then start to give way. 

 

"You're all slick and swollen. God, you feel perfect." 

 

He pulls his hips back a fraction just as Clarke rocks forward into his hand, urgently seeking something to rub her clit against. 

 

"Bellamy," she huffs warningly when she comes up on air. 

 

"I can't let you get too greedy," he teases her. His breath's hot in her ear, and it's like every nerve ending is ablaze. 

 

"I'll keep that in mind when I'm riding you," she grits out, clenching his fingers in a bone-crushing grip. 

 

His thrust into her stutters, but he manages to control it enough so he doesn't push too far into her, just enough to scrape against her front wall, right below the area that will make fireworks erupt behind her eyes. 

 

"Oh my God," she moans when he slips a little farther inside her channel. 

 

Bellamy feels her moisture coating the sides of his cock, and he's in his own private heaven. 

 

"You're everything I ever wanted," she hears him murmur, and despite his warnings, she brings their locked hands together to her mouth to kiss his skin. 

 

Bellamy angles his hips and slams straight into her, forcing an "ughh" from her lips. 

 

"I  _said_  keep your hand on your hip." His warning is sharp, and he releases his hand from hers, raising it up and then letting it fall against the side of her ass once before pushing his way back inside her body. "Do as I say, baby." 

 

Clarke's head finds a spot resting along the hollow of his shoulder. There's a light haze in her blue eyes that he catches while tracing his hand lightly up her outer labia, a definite contrast to the more forceful way he's now taking her. 

 

"What do you need, Princess?" 

 

"You." Clarke gasps. "Just you. Touch me."

 

He smirks, flicking his thumb casually over her slick clit. She buckles against him. 

 

"Like this?" 

 

"Bell." 

 

His fingers slide up to grip her left breast, allowing her nipple to fall between his middle and fourth finger, squeezing it in the gap.  

 

Clarke's walls flutter around him, and they both groan. 

 

"Tell me." 

 

"Jesus. Yes. Play with my clit," she hums, bucking against him, which only sends him deeper inside her. 

 

The second slap on her ass leaves a pale pink mark, and she groans, arching against him. 

 

"Such a feisty Princess," Bellamy purrs, beginning to rub the underside of her clit in earnest. "My good girl's gonna come around my cock just like this. Aren't you, babe? I want to feel you fall apart. I want to feel you lose it, Clarke." 

 

"Please, faster." 

 

Insects sing in the trees all around them. The moon is a silvery half-cresent where it rises in the sky. 

 

She's tightening exponentially, and he feels her thighs start to tremble, sees the muscle of her left one shiver as he slams into her as far as he can go, balls smacking into her ass while he pinches her clit between two fingers and strokes up the ridge. 

 

"That's it, let me give you what you need. My thick cock between your creamy thighs. That's what you wanted, wasn't it, babe?" 

 

She hums - in desperation or agreement it's impossible to know. His stamina knows no bounds with her helpless against him, going loose from her first orgasm when it bubbles from the base of her spine outward. Bellamy clenches his jaw, holding back on his own release. 

 

Clarke drags his fingers away from her clit; it's too sensitive. But she resumes rocking backward against him half a minute later though he knows how sensitive she must be. He's constantly surprised by her. 

 

"Yeah... like that... so good," she tells the crook of her right elbow. "Make me take you." 

 

A mild sheen of sweat coats Bellamy's brow. His shoulder blades ripple as he fucks into her desperately, chasing a feeling of euphoria that he fears? he hopes? will only come from being with her. 

 

~~~**~~~

 

The following Friday Bellamy sits waiting in his truck, ready to pick Clarke up from her after-school art class at Arkadia High. His eyes coast over the exterior of the building - futuristic and metallic in a sea of brick and stone columns everywhere else. Ten minutes have passed since the time she told him she'd be ready. He cuts the engine and rolls down the windows, reaching over into the passenger seat to pick up a book he left there. A flash of yellow catches his eye, and he sees her hobbling faster than he knows her ankle will comfortably allow around the corner. 

 

A lanky, long-haired guy trails closely behind her, dressed in pressed khakis and a navy blue, short-sleeve buttoned shirt. Bellamy's fist tightens immediately on the steering wheel. 

 

_Him_.  

 

The guy - he  _knows_  his name is Finn - reaches for Clarke's arm, and Bellamy's out of the car, slamming the door behind him. He tries to control his strides, keeping them long but measured. 

 

"If you'd just let me explain, I know I can make this right-" Bellamy hears him saying. 

 

"Clarke!" He calls out to her in what could pass for a greeting by someone who didn't know him well. 

 

Clarke's blue eyes snap up to his, and he thinks he sees a flash of gratitude there. He reaches for her backpack, immediately shifting the weight to his own shoulder. She moves to his side, and he slips a hand around her waist. 

 

"Who are you?" the guy demands of him. 

 

He's drawn himself up to his full height, puffing out his chest. Bellamy raises an eyebrow at him, while Clarke stiffens beside him. 

 

"I'm Bellamy Blake. Who are you?" His voice is probably grittier than it has to be.  

 

"Finn Collins," he stretches out a hand that Bellamy doesn't accept. "I'm a friend of Clarke's." 

 

_Friend his ass._

 

Finn's eyes flick between them, taking in the closeness of their bodies. 

 

"So you're...." his hand moves between them lamely, voice trailing off. 

 

Bellamy would take some satisfaction out of the crestfallen look on his face, but he's heard enough rumblings about the asshole from Octavia that he doesn't need much help connecting the dots. 

 

Clarke had liked him. He had a girlfriend. He'd led her on anyway. It seemed pretty cut and dry to him. 

 

"Bellamy's my ... well... we're together," Clarke offers to his right in her steady, straightforward tone. 

 

"Oh," Finn's still outstretched hand falls limply to his side. "I didn't know." 

 

"Well now you do," Bellamy bites at him, pulling Clarke a little closer. He half expects her to punch him in the ribs for not being more polite or whatever, but she surprisingly doesn't. 

 

"We gotta get going," she supplies instead. "See you." 

 

"I'm sorry about that," she says when they're back in his truck. 

 

"Nothing to apologize for. The guy's a douche, right?" 

 

Clarke shifts in her seat to stare at him, smoothing out her skirt. 

 

"Yeah... but how did you know?" 

 

His expression softens. He takes her left hand and brings it to his right thigh as he turns up the tree-lined street that leads to her neighborhood. 

 

"I didn't know for sure. But I came to get Octavia from the library a few weeks ago when you all were working on that science project. He was there waiting with you outside. He seemed too friendly." Bellamy shrugs, but she watches his jaw muscle twitch. "Then when you came over last week, it seemed like you'd had a bad experience, so..." 

 

She sighs, watching the traffic light flick from honey yellow to fire red. "You're too smart for your own good, Bell." 

 

His stomach clenches, hating that he's right. 

 

"Clarke, you know I don't care about that shit, right? I'm not exactly the right guy to lecture other people about morality, so--"

 

"That's not it!" she nearly cries it out, and the volume echoes in the small space. 

 

Bellamy turns to her sharply. 

 

"So what  _is_ it?" 

 

She winces, shrinking under the the intensity of his gaze. Above them, fluffy clouds float by serenely, completely at odds with her mood. 

 

"I wish it had been you instead of him," she runs a hand over her face. 

 

Bellamy narrowly avoids hitting a stray dog, veering sharply to the right and cursing. 

 

"Damn it, Clarke! You can't do that to me when I'm driving!" he exclaims when he straightens the truck and slows his ragged breaths. 

 

"I'm sorry," she breathes, running her thumb along the top of his thigh though their still-clenched hands. 

 

"It was a stupid crush. I wasn't in the best place with the campaign stress, and my parents fighting all the time. Not that they told me what they were fighting about," she finishes darkly. "He was nice to me in class, and ... I liked him. It happened after a party, in the basement. We were playing pingpong until we... weren't.' 

 

"Did he hurt you?" The question is rough like sandpaper. 

 

“No, it wasn’t like that, not really." 

 

His eyes blacken, and he grips her knee. She slides her hand up and down his arm in a measured pattern.  "First time always hurts, Bell” she says quietly.

 

It's so silent on the rest of the drive to her house that even the comforting sun on her face does nothing to allay Clarke's jumping nerves. 

 

Not until they're parked in front of her house does he speak again. The anxiety building in her stomach is enough for twenty expectant mothers to share between them.  

“I just wish…” he huffs, frustrated. “I wish I’d told you sooner. So at least you would’ve known you had options if you wanted them." He looks earnestly at her, searching her face. 

 

A moment passes, then Clarke's soft smile glows like the dawn. She runs a hand through his floppy curls, and he leans into the touch and her ensuing kiss. 

“You’re sweeter than I thought you’d be.” 

 

"I've got a reputation to protect," Bellamy returns, not missing a beat. 

 

She laughs, running a thumb over his cheekbone and allowing him to draw her against his chest for a brief moment. But then the humor fades from her eyes when they look up at her imposing Tudor home and the wrought-iron gate surrounding it. 

 

"Hey, Princess?" Bellamy says reverently. She turns to him. 

 

"Just remember you're not alone. Ok?" 

 

She swallows hard but nods. 

 

"I know." 

 

"Good." He leans forward once more and presses a chaste kiss to her forehead. 

 

"So am I going to see you this weekend?" 

 

"Yeah," she grins. "I'll be the one climbing through your window." 


End file.
